


Box Turtle Lane

by floralstiel



Series: Box Turtle Lane [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sassy, Sastiel - Freeform, Witchcraft, but not the bad kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralstiel/pseuds/floralstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam just moved into the same town as his older brother, set with a new job and a crappy apartment but he couldn't complain. He liked the neighborhood, especially a certain street called Box Turtle Lane. Why? Because a witch lived there, and if there's one thing that Sam knew for certain, he was the best thing that ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That street with the nice fellow...

**Author's Note:**

> “I know it’s silly of me, but, I’m glad you finally said hello to me, you know, the other day? I think that was about the tenth time you rode past my house, n-not that I was expecting you to I’m just…I was just…not that I was counting…” Castiel trailed off, obviously flustered and Sam felt the same. He shoved his hands in his pocket to keep from doing something he shouldn’t and cleared his throat.
> 
> “Yeah, me too.”
> 
> Me too? Lame, Winchester, lame.

The morning was Sam’s favorite part of the day. He didn’t even mind waking up ten minutes early either. He got dressed, ate a breakfast of toast and a hurried sip of coffee before the rest went in his to-go container, brushed his hair and made sure it was swept out of his face—his brother, Dean, teased him endlessly about its length—before he grabbed his bag and thermos and left. He ambled down the wood stairs—uncaring that they creaked perilously at just the slightest hint of pressure, the place was old and crumbling down around his ears but the rent was decent and the location was choice—then went out the front door. He found his bike and unlocked the chain and left his apartment, heartbeat steadily increasing as he rounded the corner and neared the end of the street. He didn’t have to go down this way, there was a much quicker route that took him through the inner city, but its benefits far outweighed the costs.

Almost as if on cue, the front door of the house on the end opened and a man stepped out. Sam slowed, but didn’t stop to stare like he longed to do. The man was gorgeous, with a smooth profile, baby blue eyes offset by his dark, ruffled hair. Sam wanted to know if it was as soft as it looked. He always walked at a sedate, calm pace, making it harder for Sam to slow down enough to watch without looking like a creep. He opened the gate on his white picket fence, like every day, walked the short length of sidewalk to a separate gate, and went into his garden.

The garden wasn’t just some patch of dirt with dying tomato plants in it. No, this was a veritable Eden with rows upon rows of flowering trees that seemed to bloom even in the harshest of weather, flowers and green-leaved plants so many Sam would have no hope at attempting to name them all, smaller cubicles of land separate and devoted completely to herbs and pepper plants and spices, so many colors and smells and wonders that Sam had a hard time believing they all existed in the same place. He wouldn’t believe it, actually, if he didn’t ride by it each day.

He actually knew the man who owned and cared for the garden, he knew him because he was the only one in town who could cure a cold in a day, make chicken pox disappear in hours, get rid of aches and pains and banish headaches with a snap of his fingers. Castiel was his name, Castiel Novak, and he was different. Many would say eccentric, or ordinary, or nice, or normal, but Sam believed him to be special.

He was different because he was a witch. No, no one calls them wizards or warlocks or anything like that, in fact Sam knew the man would be politely affronted if you called him anything else. He was a botanist, though he called himself a herbologist, a potion maker, and a master at the practical uses of witchcraft. In the past he never accepted payment from the people in town who sought him out, though once they warmed their hearts to him they insisted.

Sam wasn’t exactly a believer, per se, seeing as he’d never seen legitimate proof of these acts of magic, just stories, and while Castiel’s garden was indeed impressive, that just meant he took good care of his plants. Sam was a scientist, a bit of a genius if his brother had any say in it, and he spent his days in the research lab on the outskirts of town, studying molecules and chemicals and all manner of science type things, and he gave up attempting to describe to others what he actually did for a living after about the umpteenth time.

“Morning,” Sam called to Castiel as he finally rolled by, his heart pounding near out of his chest when Castiel turned with an absent smile on his plump, slightly chapped lips.

“Good morning,” he replied breezily, halfway into his garden. Sam’s heart fluttered at hearing his voice. It was the first time he had dared speak to the man, and his voice was definitely not what he had expected. Just looking at the willowy man one would expect him to have some sort of soft, breathy tone to match his aura of intrigue, yet it was quite the opposite. Castiel’s voice was deep and gravelly, sounding almost raspy but that could have just been a byproduct of the morning, or something else. Sam almost lost control of his bike thinking about the ways a man’s voice could sound so rough and breathy, so…fucked out.

He turned to glance behind him, curious, and almost fell again when he saw a taller, light haired man lean down to kiss both of Castiel’s cheeks.

“I’ll come by later today, love, you keep warm.”

“I will Balthazar, give my regards to Anna.”

Sam choked on air when he rounded the nearest corner, not believing what he just saw. Castiel, his precious innocent Castiel, not so innocent after all.

“Stupid, stupid…” Sam muttered to himself, getting back on his bike. He pedaled faster and let his emotions fuel his energy. It was stupid of him to think that a man Castiel’s age would be single, let alone gay, though he guessed now he had his proof. Whoever the accented man was, he was lucky, and Sam would be damned if he got in the way of that…but he was just upset, that’s all. His childish crush on a man he didn’t even know had been quashed, smashed, torn into pieces and he was just upset, that’s all. No, really.

Hell, he hadn’t even spoken to the man once since Sam moved into town months ago. Dean, who had lived in town for years, insisted that he visit Castiel when he had the flu, but Sam just shook his head and took his prescription pills, even when the doctor herself looked at him funny and told him it was okay to visit the “young man with the garden on Box Turtle Lane,” because he “handles these types of things.”

That had been his first wasted opportunity. The next had been when he visited the doctor for a severe case of carpal tunnel. The doctor had almost turned him away, muttering that he should stop wasting his time and he should just go to Castiel’s place on Box Turtle Lane.

His third wasted opportunity was when Dean complained about a weird rash he had, and demanded that Sam go get the “lemony smelly lotion, Cas’ll know which one I mean.” Sam did not, in fact, go see “Cas,” as Dean called him, and instead rode to the nearest CVS to get an anti-itch cream and a pack of gum for himself.

“You know,” the comely employee started while she scanned his items, “I’ve never seen you in town before so I’ll let you in on a little secret. There’s this young man who lives on Box Turtle Lane with a magnificent garden—I’m sure you’ve seen it—and he has marvelous ointments for rashes and acne and all sorts of topical creams, a girl could go crazy over what he can do. He’s a witch, you know, not many of them on this side of the world, hmm?”

Sam didn’t say anything, even when she scanned his gum and said that Castiel made his own mints as well. They cured bad breath. He only nodded and smiled tightly, paid for his purchase then left. Dean complained when Sam didn’t bring him what he wanted.

Sam had huffed in annoyance and hunkered down in front of his laptop, intent on finishing his report before going to his first day of work at the lab. The route he chose happened to take him down the infamous Box Turtle Lane, and he had left early to get to work before his shift began, just to be safe, and that’s when he saw him for the first time.

It sounded cheesy to him later, but when he saw Castiel open his front door to step out onto the porch it happened almost as if in slow-motion, like in the movies. It wasn’t quite bright yet, in that special time between the wee hours of the morning and the day where everything was still and quiet and wet with dew. Castiel shut his door and walked down his front step, trailing delicately around puddles that were still drying from last night’s rain shower, and then opened the gate in his white picket fence. He was in a pair of bright orange slippers, some blue boxers and an oversized, off-white cable knit sweater that looked suspiciously like the sweater Dean claimed he lost a few months ago. A pair of dark plastic frames perched precariously on the tip of his nose, though he was looking over them, so they had to be reading glasses.

As soon as Sam passed him he fumbled for his cell, knowing Dean would be grumpy that he called so early in the morning but he didn’t care.

“What the hell, Sammy, you get lost? At least tell me you rode down Box Turtle, Cas can help you out…”

Sam stifled a curse and said instead, “No, Dean, I’m fine, I’m just wondering why I saw Castiel wearing one of the sweaters I bought you for Christmas last year.”

There was silence on the other end of the line for a while before Dean yawned in his ear.

“He’s actually wearing it? That’s great.”

“ _Dean_.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, princess, I was short on cash so I gave it to him to pay for some remedies I needed. That was back when my knee was giving me all that trouble, you remember that.”

Sam did remember, and he also remembered the price tag that had been on that sweater. As if sensing his disgruntlement Dean sighed and claimed that it had been worth it, his knee hadn’t acted up in months. Sam knew how much his knee had been troubling him before he moved into Castiel’s town. It was the result of an old automobile accident, and Sam was—albeit a little upset that Dean had used his gift as payment—grateful that Dean was no longer in pain.

After that, people stopped badgering him to visit Castiel, especially after most discovered he was a scientist. Sam didn’t exactly buy into the whole witchcraft thing, even though it was a proven fact that witches accounted for around 20% of the world’s population, though they were more centered in the UK, for some reason. Until he saw proof, actual empirical evidence, he wouldn’t believe it. Science was the study of the observable, not the supernatural, seeing as the supernatural didn’t exist in his book, and he couldn’t exactly work on testimony alone, though Castiel had a good amount of that from the townspeople.

But the more he rode by Castiel’s house, saw him leave and enter his garden, the more he developed a slight attraction to him, though he knew he would never act on it. He was too prideful, for one. He had gone about a month now without having to run to “Castiel on Box Turtle Lane” for every little thing that pained him or bothered him, even the zit that would just not go away no matter what he tried.

Castiel was a beautiful man, there was no doubt about that, and Sam’s attraction, he had to say, was natural. He could tell he wasn’t the only one crushing on the resident witch, given by the string of both men and women who always seemed to talk about him or visit his house without need of his wares or assistance, though judging by what he’d seen, while Castiel didn’t seem to mind their constant presence or advances, he never acted on a single one. That had given him just an inkling of hope before he even wanted it. Now though he knew he was a victim of puppy love, struck dumb by the mere sight of him. Wryly he wondered how Castiel would react if Sam came to him, asking for a cure for love sickness. He would die laughing if Castiel literally had something to that affect though, some sort of Love Potion #9.

Sam hurried off to work, trying to put thoughts of Castiel and that strange blonde man out of his mind. He could dream, couldn’t he? Maybe that man was just some sort of casual acquaintance. Yeah…a casual acquaintance who kisses other men. Sam could invent whatever story he wanted in his head but no matter what he always strayed back to those kisses, how Castiel had seemed unfazed by them and even smiled afterwards. Sam was almost blinded by that smile.

His uneventful day flew to a close and he trudged out to his bicycle, not looking forward to the long ride home. They couldn’t afford a car, and Dean lived in an apartment above his workshop. He was a woodcarver, and he got almost as much business as Castiel did. Why people would need to buy dozens of little carefully carved knick-knacks that were ridiculously overpriced, Sam would never know. Dean told him to stop complaining, it was good for his health and the environment to ride a bike, and Sam muttered back that it couldn’t possibly be better to kill all those trees to make his carvings. Dean took it in stride, answering with a decidedly bitter “fuck you,” as well as the information that for every tree Dean chopped down he planted two more. Sam honestly hadn’t known that.

As he rode back home he passed Castiel’s house again and nearly faltered when he saw him standing by his fence, poking at something on the side of it with a branch that Sam recognized. Dean had carved it a few days ago, he remembered teasing him for it. It had looked like just some ordinary stick you could pick up anywhere. It was dark, almost black in color from the bark and the amount of stain Dean used on it. It was about two feet long, looking more like a stunted cane than anything, though it was too twisted and gnarled to support weight. There were a few designs on it, closer to the end Castiel was holding, deeply intricate and they weren’t died black like the rest, they stood out stark white, revealing the pale insides of the wood. Sam couldn’t place what the carvings reminded him of, though he remembered seeing a woman walk away from Castiel’s house the other day carrying a bag stamped with the same pattern.  Castiel glanced to the side and saw Sam approach and he waved him down, hurrying into the street.

“Would you mind telling your brother that I am extremely grateful for his help? The carvings are working wonderfully.”

Sam gaped like a fish out of water and Castiel smiled before returning to his fence, where Sam saw some sort of vine was attempting to grow over the woodwork. The more Castiel prodded at it with the stick, Sam swore he saw it retreat before his very eyes. He blinked and shook his head, promising Castiel he would, who only replied with an absent hum and Sam pedaled away.

When he got back and told Dean what he saw his brother pursed his lips and nodded before smiling softly, a look Sam had seen only a few times before.

“That guy would forget his head if it weren’t already attached to his shoulders.”

Sam didn’t know what that meant, but Dean laughed it off, telling him dinner was in the fridge. The next morning Dean woke him up by knocking him over the head with another stick like the one Castiel had.

“I need you to drop this off at Cas’s, he’s having a little more trouble than he thought.”

“What the hell, Dean? Why can’t you do it yourself, I gotta go to work.”

“Then leave early,” Dean griped, and Sam noticed Dean’s limp was worse today. Sam immediately felt guilty.

“You want me to…ask him for some stuff too? For your leg?” Sam asked quietly. It didn’t mean he was buying into the whole thing, just that if it helped Dean then it was worth getting.

“I can’t afford it, Sammy.”

“But this…stick, thing, is he buying this from you? Just do a trade.”

“That one’s a replacement, the last one broke in the middle of the night. I forgot it was a full moon.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow at the cryptic statement but decided not to pry any further. Dean was weird, always had been, and treated his woodworks like they were his children. Every piece he made had soul.

“Well, how much is this treatment?” Sam asked and Dean paused at the door.

“$100,” Dean answered curtly. “I can’t part with that kinda cash right now, Sam.”

Dean left before Sam could protest. His brother was hiding something, he knew it, he just didn’t know _what_. The next morning Sam was sure to leave early and Castiel was waiting outside the fence, wringing his hands nervously as Sam approached.

“I have something from Dean,” Sam said, stepping closer but Castiel held up his hands.

“Oh, don’t come any closer, Sam! Just throw it here.” Castiel commanded, and caught the stick when Sam threw it. He turned around and without any warning drew the stick back and wacked the fence.

“Whoa!” Sam yelled, jumping away when Castiel reared back for another hit. Castiel tossed a breathless apology over his shoulder before hitting the fence a few more times and then he stopped, leaning back to catch his breath.

“Sorry about that, Dean told me you were coming and it wasn’t a moment too soon!”

“Right,” Sam breathed, but he didn’t know what exactly he was agreeing with.

“Ask him if there’s anything I can do for him because he really came through for me with this rush job,” Castiel said, examining the details on the grip, tracing his finger over the carvings.

“He told me that was a replacement.” Sam said, already wanting to scream at his brother.

“No, no it’s a different one entirely, I paid for it and everything,” Castiel said, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Well then there is something,” Sam said, fishing around in his pocket for his wallet. “Dean’s leg is getting pretty bad lately, and I was wondering if you had any of that ointment you gave him last time? I’ll pay, just ‘cause he’s, well, he’s a little tight for money right now. Don’t tell him I told you that,” Sam laughed the statement off, not really paying attention till he looked up and saw Castiel’s stricken expression.

“What? Why, I mean, his leg? Why didn’t he ask me before? He knows I won’t charge him…” Castiel turned back to the gate and let himself inside, beckoning for Sam to follow as he muttered to himself. Sam was just slightly giddy at the chance to go into Castiel’s house, even though it was just to retrieve medicine for his idiot brother. Dean had lied to him just to save himself a bit of pride. Dean was going to get an earful; he would make damned sure of that.

“How much did he say it cost?” Castiel scoffed, grabbing jars and vials and several planters as they walked through the entry hall.

“$100,” Sam replied, not missing Castiel’s grimace as he shook his head. The numerous mobiles and wind chimes on his porch stirred in a sudden wind, clacking and chiming softly.

Castiel’s house had been quaint from the outside, but the interior was downright charming. Each wall was a different, light shade of either blue or eggshell white. Rows of plants and miniature herb gardens lined the walls, cupboards were placed between each section, filled to the brim with supplies, glass front cabinets were filled with jars and beakers and vials and glasses and all sorts of storage containers and delicate glass utensils, all diligently labeled with neat and tidy paper markers. Watering cans and spray bottles littered every flat surface they passed, and each time Castiel was sure to pause and water a few plants as they went.

The smell of the place, though, was what Sam had been dreaming of for months now. It wasn’t heavy, hot or cloying like some of the greenhouses he had been to before, or even like the flower departments at the home improvement stores he used to frequent before he moved to town. The air was fresh and clean; it smelled like freshly washed cotton with the barest hint of perfume from each flowering plant they passed. The floorboards were rich and dark and they barely creaked beneath Sam’s feet, and he had to duck slightly under a few low hanging plants that Castiel merely glided under. Castiel thrived in the house, glowing almost amidst his precious charges and Sam caught himself grinning like an idiot, so hard his face hurt.

The house was filled with light, even though the sun had barely started to rise. It wasn’t like the harsh light from artificial bulbs and lamps, this was like actual sunlight, and Sam tried to look around to find the source but found none. When they reached the kitchen, Sam was once again impressed beyond words. Everything was done up in charming brick and cracked plaster, giving it an old world look, so much so Sam almost expected a giant, old fashioned brick oven, but Castiel was outfitted with modern kitchen appliances save for the row of gleaming copper pots and pans above his stove and, of course, the wall of spices and herbs that took up half of the kitchen. It smelled divine, and Sam noticed Castiel had been cooking something before he guessed he had abandoned it in favor of…whatever he had been doing with that branch. There were other areas of the house that stemmed off from the hallway and the kitchen that Sam so desperately wanted to explore, but knew he was just being nosy.

“Come have a seat, if you have a few minutes?” Castiel asked, biting his lip.

“Uh, yeah…yeah I got a few minutes.” Sam barely remembered how to speak after watching the man bite those lips of his. Castiel was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it now more than ever. He stumbled over to the table Castiel was at, pulling out an antique looking chair from the matching table to take a seat. Castiel turned away—thank god—and focused on the objects he brought to the table.

“Dean is so stubborn, I don’t understand why he doesn’t accept my help more often when he is so willing to offer his,” Castiel muttered, voice stormy but fond. “You are his brother, you grew up with him, why is he the way he is?”

Sam laughed at this, and shook his head, “Dean is crazy, if you haven’t already figured that out. He’ll never accept charity, even if he were penniless and out on the streets. He’s just not the kind of person to take help so easily. He probably thinks he’s inconveniencing you.”

Castiel snorted but didn’t stop pouring and stirring together two different, amber colored liquids that smelled like honey and vanilla.

“And I actually didn’t grow up with him, um…We were separated at birth. We only really met for the first time about eight years ago.”

Castiel paused and looked up at him, some form of remorse on his features.

“I did not know…I apologize.”

“It’s no big deal. It’s in the past. The circumstances of our separation were crap, yeah, but at least we found each other.”

“I could never imagine being separated from my family. Most of them live in another country, but we keep in touch. One of my brothers is here on a visit, in fact. He’s on holiday and decided to spend it with me this year.” Castiel smiled fondly while he worked, this time crushing various plant seeds and dried somethings with a mortar and pestle. “I’m his favorite, apparently, and he’s the only one whose company I enjoy. I love my family, don’t get me wrong, they’re just…they can be a little _overbearing_.”

“I know the feeling. There are certain people Dean and I know that, while not related by blood, are still family, and they can be quite a handful.”

Castiel grinned and poured the mixture of crushed seeds and leaves into the jar of liquid, stirring and muttering under his breath. He reached without looking and grabbed an empty glass bottle from the shelf next to him and stirred two more times before tapping the jar three times. He retrieved a funnel from the table and then poured the concoction into the bottle. He screwed a baby blue lid onto the bottle and wrapped a piece of white cloth around the neck, tying it with a piece of twine infused with bits of plant stems and blue petals. He tucked a small flower into the knot before tying it and then tapped the lid. Sam swore he heard a soft pop, he blinked, and he could have sworn the glass had been clear before, now it was white.

“There, see? No trouble at all.”

The bottle was about the same size of a beer bottle, but it was rectangular in shape. When Sam took it from Castiel’s hands it was pleasantly warm, and the knot and cloth didn’t budge, even when he nudged it with his thumb.

“Only Dean can open it,” Castiel said proudly.

“Thanks for this, Castiel, he’ll appreciate it.”

Castiel smiled and started cleaning up, sweeping the remaining seeds and leaves into a waiting jar that was promptly sealed tight. Castiel snapped, there were more popping noises, and Sam had sworn there had been glasses and mess all over the table. They were gone now, replaced with a white table cloth and a small centerpiece of blue flowers in a slim vase with only the lingering scent of honey.

“I don’t want to keep you any longer, Sam, thank you for the company though. I don’t get many visitors…well, besides customers.” Castiel trailed off wistfully, and Sam tried not to focus too hard on the broom sweeping on its own in the corner.

“I could…uh, I could come over after work, if you want some company?” Sam offered lamely, cringing when his voice teetered off high pitch, like a little boy asking out his first crush. It was worth the embarrassment though when Castiel’s face lit up with a stunning grin and the broom in the corner twirled around and started banging the wall, knocking a glass jar onto the floor, though Sam tried really hard not to notice.

“I would love that, Sam.”

 

Sam could barely focus at work; he was so intent on seeing Castiel afterwards that he almost ruined several samples in the lab. He blushed crimson when the supervisor came around and laughed, patted him on his back and told him it was fine. It wasn’t fine; Sam was making a fool of himself. He shook his head and reset the slides and made sure the samples were stashed securely in the fridge. He went through the routine again, marking the necessary data on the clipboard, taking measurements, recording those too, and he couldn’t stop thinking about how boring this job was. He wondered how Castiel’s day would go.

Would he get any customers today? He did seem kind of lonely when Sam stopped by. Did people usually just go to him with their complaints, wait for him to make them something then leave like he did, and then never come back? He frowned at that. Why would anyone want to see Castiel just once? He was charming, his house was quaint, and just looking at that garden of his was a pleasure. Why was Castiel still alone? Maybe he was alone on purpose, maybe it was some kind of witch thing, Sam had no idea. Or maybe he just wasn’t interested, it was his choice after all, and Sam certainly shouldn’t be the one to call him on it. It was hardly his business, he barely knew him. It still bothered him though. No one should be so alone, Sam knew how it felt and he certainly didn’t want Castiel to be alone forever.

Nothing interesting happened in the lab, nothing to really distract him from the main subject of his thoughts anyway. The day dragged on and on, and Sam kept glancing at his bag on his desk, where the tip of Dean’s medicine bottle was sticking out, mocking him with thoughts of Castiel and his cozy house that smelled like home, not the super sterile lab he happened to be in at the moment. He squirmed in his desk chair while he waited for the computer to churn through the day’s data. Once it was finished and he printed out the results he could go to Castiel’s house. The sheets printed—almost an entire ream of paper!—and Sam was quick to scoop them into a folder, labeled it with the date and time, and then retrieved his bag from his desk. He hung his lab coat on the rack by the door and deposited the folder in the proper bin for the night crew and then he left as fast as he could, not wanting to be stopped for idle office chatter by any of his peers.

When he left he pedaled too quickly and was out of breath before he even left the parking lot. He chuckled and slowed down, he had finished early so he could take his time. He didn’t want to show up all sweaty and gross at Castiel’s front door, that wouldn’t be nice for either of them.

By the time he made it to Castiel’s house it was starting to get dark, and he noticed several lanterns were placed along Castiel’s fence that he hadn’t seen before. He smiled, hoping Castiel put them up for him seeing as there weren’t any street lamps to light his way. He usually had to make do with the little bike light he attached to his handlebars. The gate to the path to his door was open, and Sam hopped off his bike and wheeled it up the path. It was made of round, large stones set into the ground, worn down by all of Castiel’s customers. At a loss for what else to do Sam set his bike down by the door, behind a porch swing off to the right. He took a moment to pat himself down, smoothing away the wrinkles in his shirt and jacket and then he ran his fingers through his hair, frowning when it refused to sit right. He huffed and gave up, ringing the worn doorbell, and he didn’t have to wait long. Barely a few seconds later Castiel threw the door open with a wide grin.

“Sam! I’m glad you could make it.”

Sam could only grin like a loon while Castiel ushered him inside, shivering as he commented on the weather. It was kind of cold, but Sam was used to the cold, the heater was always broken in his apartment. Castiel was bundled up in several layers, and he was quick to shut the door.

“Balthazar told me to keep warm, and I’m trying, I really am, but it’s hard when that blasted wind decides to keep up, you know? And I have no control over that, not really, despite what many might think.” Castiel rambled, sounding a bit miffed.

“Well, I mean, you can’t control nature, right?” Sam offered slowly. Castiel paused his shuffling and grinned.

“Yes, yes that’s absolutely right, thank you.” Castiel breathed. Sam didn’t know what that meant, but he was glad he could cheer the man up, at least a little.

“Please, come in, come in, make yourself at home. Balthazar is here as well, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all, I’m glad to meet him.”

Sam didn’t think Castiel’s smile could get any wider, and he hurried inside. Sam noticed Castiel was just in slippers again, and he saw two pairs of shoes by the door. He shrugged and toed off his own shoes, not wanting to trail in any dirt. He took off his jacket and hung it on the rack by the door. Castiel did tell him to make himself at home. He followed the voices and the scent of tomatoes and garlic to the kitchen, taking care not to step on a creeping vine that had wound itself along the hallway floor. That _definitely_ hadn’t been there before. 

He rounded the corner to the kitchen and paused when he saw the man who had kissed Castiel earlier. Sam swallowed and wondered why he was here. Castiel didn’t say he invited his boyfriend too. His heart started pounding, sounding too loud in his ears. Why would Castiel invite him over if his boyfriend was going to be here too? Wouldn’t that be awkward? It would put them all on the spot and make the evening too difficult to imagine. Sam swallowed again, trying to down the lump in his throat when the two spoke quietly for a second before turning to the door. Castiel was still smiling, and so was the man, and Sam didn’t even want to know what that meant.

“Sam, this is my brother, Balthazar. Balthazar, this is Sam, he lives here in town, he’s Dean’s brother.”

_Oh._

Sam, even though most would say he’s pretty smart, was a little slow on the uptake when the thin blond man came around the counter to shake his hand. It wasn’t entirely his fault, there wasn’t that much of a family resemblance.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Cassie’s been telling me all about you, and of course I already know your brother.”

“You,” Sam coughed and cleared his throat and tried to ignore how the wooden spoon in the pot behind them was stirring all on its own, “you know my brother?”

“Well of course,” he replied, but he didn’t elaborate.

“I already told you this morning that Balthazar was here on holiday, and well, I thought you two should meet, seeing as he already knows Dean. Besides, he’s staying here with me, wouldn’t be fair to boot him out for a night.”

“I told you I can make myself scarce if that was what you wanted,” Balthazar remarked flippantly, glancing once at Sam before nudging Castiel in his direction, out of the way of the stove.

“You two go mingle, I’ll finish up here. Hope you enjoy spaghetti, Sam, it was the only thing we could whip up at the moment.”

“S-spaghetti’s fine,” Sam replied, walking away when Castiel pushed him toward the table.

“Please,” Castiel scoffed as he pulled plates down from one of the cabinets, “he makes it sound like such a burden to cook. He can do it while he sleeps, don’t know why he’s making such a fuss _now_.”

“Um, I don’t know.” Sam said unhelpfully, feeling much like a third wheel.

“Honestly though, he can. Once, when we were boys, I woke up to the most delicious smell. You see, in his sleep he had concocted this strange mixture of berries and cream and honey that had gone atop freshly baked pastries that were just finishing up in the oven. For breakfast, he said, like it was no big deal. I thought our brother was going to have a fit when he saw the state of the kitchen.”

“And he had me clean the lot of it, too.” Balthazar added from the kitchen.

“An entire bag of flour had been dumped on the floor.” Castiel said with a smug little grin.

“As I recall you loved those pastries.”

“Yes I did, we all did, I think.” Castiel said wistfully, staring at the cracked china in front of him.

“Well I didn’t, I could have done better.”

“While you are awake, maybe.”

Sam contented himself with merely listening to the two argue. It was charming how Castiel fired back thinly veiled insults while Balthazar held nothing back. They seemed comfortable in their sibling rivalry, just like how Sam was just beginning to be with Dean.

By listening to them he learned a little about Castiel’s other siblings. He had three older brothers beside Balthazar, named Michael, Gabriel and Uriel. He had one sister who was the same age as him, Anna, and two younger brothers named Inias and Samandriel, but apparently everyone calls him Alfie. They all lived in England, in the house their family lived in for generations. Castiel was the only one who moved to the U.S. permanently, while a few did venture there for a few years at a time.

Balthazar had a business in central London, or he says he would have made the move to the states with Castiel. He couldn’t abandon it, and apparently no one else was capable of taking it off his hands. Castiel added that it took a lot to keep his job, and there were certain skills it required that not many possessed. Balthazar had chuckled and waved his hand, saying it wasn’t all that difficult, you just needed to be a little more cutthroat when dealing with suppliers, whatever that meant. Again, Sam really didn’t want to know.

They talked throughout their meal, and they were still talking by the time Sam managed to make his way to the front door. Balthazar walked off after saying his goodbyes, mentioning he was going to clean the kitchen. Castiel watched him leave and then turned back to Sam, cheeks slightly flushed and he glanced down at his slippers.

“I-it was nice having you here, Sam, I appreciate it.”

“No, the pleasure was all mine!”

“I know it’s silly of me, but, I’m glad you finally said hello to me, you know, the other day? I think that was about the tenth time you rode past my house, n-not that I was expecting you to I’m just…I was just…not that I was counting…” Castiel trailed off, obviously flustered and Sam felt the same. He shoved his hands in his pocket to keep from doing something he shouldn’t and cleared his throat.

“Yeah, me too.”

_Me too? Lame, Winchester, lame._

“I mean, um, there were so many wasted opportunities for me to meet you, and I kind of beat myself up about it every time I think about it…”

“Really? Like what?” Castiel asked, looking bashful, yet Sam hoped he didn’t imagine that dash of hopefulness in his tone.

“Well, there was a time where I had the flu, and then Dean had some weird rash which I think was poison oak but he denies it, and then there was a time where I had carpal tunnel and I didn’t come, and even the doctor told me to stop wasting his time, he told me to go to you and I still didn’t.” Sam laughed.

“The flu?! Sam, I could have cured that in a day!” Castiel grumbled, affronted, and Sam quickly held his arms up in placation.

“Whoa, it’s okay, I’m notoriously quick to get over illnesses, it’s Dean you need to worry about. It went away after a few days.”

Castiel’s face instantly reddened worse than before and he nodded without saying anything else. They both stood by the door for a few more awkward seconds before Castiel cleared his throat and a broom by the door fell over onto a purplish plant that smelled like his mother’s perfume.

“Well, uh, I guess I’ll be going now. Thanks for having me over.” Sam said, trying to put his shoes on in a way that wasn’t so awkward. In the end he just shoved them on and one of the tongues jammed in against his toes but he would fix it later.

“Yeah, thank you for coming, I know it was last minute.”

“It’s fine, I had a great time.”

“Wonderful,” Castiel sighed, and the broom rolled off the plant, onto the floor and jittered a few times.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” Sam asked, though he didn’t mean for it to sound like a question, he knew he would see him, he saw him every morning, had for the past month.

“Of course,” Castiel replied with a smile and the broom stopped twitching.

Before he could leave the porch Castiel invited him and Dean over for a late brunch on Saturday and Sam was quick to agree, relishing Castiel’s flushed cheeks as he told him when to come over. He was giddy with joy when he left Castiel’s house to return home. He had Dean’s ointment safely tucked away in his bag, as well as a few extra odds and ends Castiel thrust on him at the door before he left, refusing to hear any of Sam’s protests. There were curious little embroidered packages of ground herbs and rubs and tiny colored jars filled with jams and sauces and lotions for all sorts of uses. They were all wrapped in the same white cloth Dean’s bottle was wrapped in, nestled in a small, blue, hand woven basket. Sam felt a little awkward carrying it on his bike, but no one was out at that time of night.

He barely made it through the door before Dean was struggling to his feet, leaning heavily on an unfinished branch—like the one he made for Castiel—as a pseudo cane.

“Where the _hell_ you been?” He growled, panting from exertion and Sam was quick to lay down his things and rush to his brother’s side.

“Dean, whoa, relax. I went to Castiel’s house after work, I know I should’ve called, I’m sorry…”

Dean panted against his neck when he sagged, resting his full weight against his brother’s side.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Dean.” Sam breathed in confusion. He’d never seen his brother act like this before. He helped him sit back down on his chair and straightened his leg out in front of him, pausing at every wince and gasp from his brother. Dean shut his eyes and sat there for a while, breathing hard and clenching his fists. His jaw was tight and Sam could see him shaking.

“They were talking about an accident on the radio. I just had a weird feeling, that’s all.” Dean said after a moment, opening his eyes to look at Sam. “I just worry…I…I lost you once, Sam, I don’t wanna lose you again.”

“Dean, I didn’t know. I’ll be sure to call next time, I’m so sorry.” Sam whispered.

Dean hummed raggedly and his muscles finally relaxed. Sam smiled ruefully and stood, walking back to the counter to get the basket and Dean’s bottle from his bag.

“Hey,” Sam called softly, startling his brother awake. He must have stayed up the whole time waiting for him to come home. Dean started his days early, way before Sam even thought about getting up, and ended early. He must have been exhausted.

“I got you something from Castiel’s, a gift.” Sam said as he placed the opaque bottle in Dean’s hands. He looked down at it in confusion and fingered the blue flower and the twine tie with a small grin. He untied the twine and placed the cloth, twine and flower onto his lap. He uncapped the bottle and smelled it cautiously, and he immediately stiffened and looked up at Sam with wide eyes. Sam frowned and shook his head.

“Castiel told me he offered to make you that whenever you needed it. I sat there and watched him make it, couldn’t have taken longer than 5 minutes.”

“Sammy, I…”

“No buts, Dean. Next time your leg gets this bad you ask him for it, or I’ll go and get it myself.”

Dean nodded dumbly, cowed for once. Sam grinned and sat down in the chair next to Dean, watching as he drank the strange concoction Castiel made for him. Sam rifled through the various other jars and things in the basket as Dean relaxed into his chair, eyes drooping.

“Oh, Castiel invited us over for brunch on Saturday, just so you know.” Sam said. Dean grunted and waved his hand in acknowledgement.

“His house is really nice, I think I’m a little jealous, you know?” Sam kept talking, knowing he was lulling his brother to sleep, which was the plan anyway. “You’ve been stuck in this apartment this whole time; a house would be nice, right? No stairs to walk up and down every morning and night, no noisy neighbors, _water pressure_ …”

Dean groaned at the mention of it, their shower was…lacking. Sam chuckled and patted his leg, getting to his feet. He gathered the packets and jars and put them all away onto the kitchen counter.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Sam murmured, leaning over to help his brother to his feet. Sam steered him to the stairwell and helped him up to his room.  Dean had been protective in the past, Sam knew that, but this was borderline ridiculous. All Dean had to do was call him, but then again Dean had never been level headed when he was stressed. Dean sank down onto his bed without a struggle and grumpily yanked the blanket over his head.

“Why don’t you take the blanket off and look at me?” Sam chastised, and Dean groaned and peeked out.

“Take the day off tomorrow, man, you’re a wreck.” Sam grinned when Dean squinted up at him and rolled over with a half-grumbled acquiescence. Sam left him and took his bag and his bike next door. He walked up the depressingly creaky stairs and slammed his door—the only way he could get it to shut all the way—before preparing for bed. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head as he thought about Cas—Castiel—whatever.

Talking to Castiel rather than just watching him had been better than he could have possibly imagined, not like that was creepy or anything, it just was. He had never imagined he would talk to him, ever. He supposed he had Dean to thank, in an abstract sort of way. If he hadn’t asked Sam to deliver that branch-thingy—he really needed to find out what that was, exactly—then he probably would have never gathered the courage to talk to him. Sam sighed and closed his eyes, happy, for once, with his new life in this new place. 


	2. The Brunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Cas are awkward babies in this chapter as Dean and Sam are invited over for a late breakfast, and Sam can't seem to stop sneezing.

Castiel closed the door, biting his lip so hard it hurt and he waited a few minutes before he let out a gush of breath and a squeak of happiness. Broom clattered down the hall after him as he jogged to the kitchen, humming under his breath and watering cans and misters bobbed and jostled around in the air as he passed, watering their respective charges.

It was always hard to keep a lid on his magic under normal circumstances, like going to the store or other errands, but it was _especially_ difficult while Sam was over, and he could barely contain his glee. Now he let it all out, and the house lit up, chimes rang through the house and Broom flew by, narrowly missing his head. Castiel didn’t even care, he was so incredibly happy all he could manage was a quick admonishment as it rolled along the floor ahead of him.

Balthazar had already cleaned the kitchen; the pots and pans were spotless, the mess from the stove gone, even the pot of sauce that Broom had knocked over when Castiel had gotten agitated over whether it tasted good or if Sam would like it and what if he didn’t like it, what then? Balthazar was at the table, waiting for him, and he ducked out of Broom’s way as it flew around the dining room, finally settling on the top shelf by the corner.

“I think you know plenty about _plants_ now, Cassie, perhaps it’s time to work with that _broom_ of yours.” Balthazar admonished when it pushed several large jars out of the way so it could settle properly. Castiel snapped and the jars landed on the ground, upright with nary a crack on them.

“Oh, it’s fine, Broom doesn’t get in my way while I’m working, and it knows to be good when we have guests…” Castiel muttered, sending it a warning glare when it tried to push off another jar. It creaked and rolled closer to the wall before it slid to the floor with a crash. Castiel winced and laughed deprecatingly when Balthazar shook his head.

“If Michael were to see the state of you,” he started and Castiel cut him off with a disgruntled, half-bark of displeasure and Balthazar held his hands up in surrender.

“Far be it from me to judge you, Cassie, but you know he’ll get over himself and visit you someday. You want to make matters between you worse?”

“ _I_ am not the problem,” Castiel reminded him, brushing Broom away when it tried to snag one of its twigs in his hair, “the problem is Michael and Lucifer’s little quarrel with each other.”

“You hurt Michael when you got on that plane, you know that.”

“But I did not do it for Lucifer’s sake. How he could think that is _beyond_ me…”

“It’s because Lucifer is here as well,” Balthazar sighed, “being on the opposite side of the country means little to Michael, he just thinks you left him for his brother.”

“ _Our_ brother,” Castiel hissed. “We are still family, are we not? Or has some edict passed in the old country that has somehow changed that?”

“Don’t be daft,” Balthazar chided, standing from the table to take his hands. “Of course we’re still family. But things have happened in the past, bad blood and ill tidings, things you cannot possibly understand.”

“Because of how I am?” Castiel asked softly.

“Because of how you are,” Balthazar agreed.

Castiel sighed; he hated how his demeanor had always been affected by his magic. He could never remain angry for too long, he could never maintain much spite for any one person—save for Michael, but that was a different story entirely—and the workings of the politics in his family had always remained a mystery to him. His mother, alike in constitution, had shielded him from the worst of it, keeping him away from the family house, locked away in a summer cottage—called the Willow House—surrounded by his beloved flora and fauna. He had been raised a gentle soul, incapable of the violence he quickly learned his older brothers were prone to.

His mother was called Naomi, and she taught him everything he needed to know about his witchcraft. She taught him the names of all the plants and animals he would possibly need for his craft, he was taught that it would be better to have a cat than a dog, though Castiel loved them both, and that he should love the earth and all the creatures in it. Her cat followed him when he was young and he chased fawns into the meadows, giggling and covered in grass stains and flower buds. That old cat had been downright ornery before it passed away, a big fat white thing, all fluff and meanness; as a child he suffered many scratches and bites from it.

When he was nine his mother fell ill. Castiel didn’t know what to do, he was still a child. He knew enough to know what the dimming lights and dying plants meant. He knew enough to run to the manor house 3 miles to the north when he woke to a cold house and a cold mother, unmoving and unheeding to his pleas and cries. He had pounded on the great oak door, screaming for help and Michael had answered, looking down at him disapprovingly before he saw the state he was in. Michael had called for the family doctor before scooping Castiel up into his arms and despite the fact that Castiel barely knew his older brother he cried into his neck, soaking his robes with snot and tears, but Michael held him the whole time, rubbing his back and shushing him when he wailed louder when the doctor returned, shaking his head. Michael let Castiel sleep in his bed with him that night, rubbing his back and smoothing his hair down like his mother used to until he fell into a fitful slumber.

After his mother had died he was but a child, not even past his first decade of life, and Michael had him moved into the main house. Castiel had felt stifled there, his only friends the stunted bushes and the lone weeping willow that grew on the sweeping estate of rock pathways and grassy lawns maintained not with magic but with human invention and chemicals. Michael had only ever been supportive, but he wasn’t like his mother, he didn’t understand Castiel’s particular brand of craft, he didn’t know how to accommodate him. Castiel could be found beneath the willow’s branches on the bad days, of which there were many, and Balthazar had become his fast friend, taking to reading in its shade with his delicate younger brother. It took a year for Castiel to even speak, and yet he used Balthazar as a messenger, speaking to others through him.

Michael had been content to let Castiel wallow in his sorrow, but after the first year passed he tried to reach out to his youngest brother, to teach him the ways of the family, anything to have him speak again. Castiel had still refused, and Michael had grown bitter.

He sent him away to a private boarding school for magic children, and Castiel was further stifled still. Their curriculum focused on defensive and offensive magic, as if he would grow to fight and kill with his gift and he pleaded Balthazar to take him home with each letter he wrote. He could feel himself wasting away. He barely slept, he barely ate. They didn’t have much for people like him; they populated the dinner tables with rich gravies and meats while Castiel preferred gentler fare.  He had decided years ago that he would never eat the flesh of an animal.

The other boys and girls were boisterous and powerful already, even in their young age, and Castiel wept when he found lacerations on the old oaks in the school garden, from children practicing spells no doubt. He tried to heal the plants as best he could, tried to nurture the trodden flowers and even the weeds. He used his homemade wand—carved from the branch of his willow back home, only a limb given willingly would he use—to heal the worst of the gashes, and he smiled when he heard the oaks groan in unison, pleased when their flesh was made new, stitched together with love and care.

One of the professors, a woman whose name now escaped him, saw him healing the trees and she pulled him to the side and asked where he learned how to perform such magic, as it was not in the curriculum. He had replied that it was his mother who had helped him learn when his magic had grown too much for him to bear. But passing his energy on to nature he could help the earth as well as himself. It was all he knew how to do.

The professor had called Michael and suggested that he send him to a different school, one more suited to his needs and peculiarities. Castiel listened to the call from a nearby chair in her office, kicking his legs back and forth idly. He knew his brother would never allow it. That had been the school all of them had gone too, all the previous generations of Novaks and Miltons. It would be unheard of to break tradition for one little boy. Sure enough, the woman hung up a moment later, obviously frustrated. She turned to Castiel with a sympathetic smile, saying she would try to speak with the other instructors to make his time at the school easier. Castiel stared at the grass stains on his knees and nodded. The next month ushered in spring, and the creation of a new curriculum more suited to his needs that Castiel took to with all his heart. Spring was the time of growth and new things, newborn animals and flower buds and saplings and butterflies and honey breeze and sun. Years later he had been offered a teaching position at the school in that same program that had flourished after its inception. He politely refused and moved on.

 

Dean woke slowly the next morning, in the familiar, honeyed haze of Castiel’s comforting magic. He sighed and stretched, smiling when the first time in a month he could do so pain free. Castiel was no stranger to his pride, and hadn’t pried when Dean refused his help time after time, but he obviously worked a way around it using his brother. He laughed softly to himself when he pulled himself upright. Castiel was a wily one when given the opportunity.

He glanced at the clock, groaning when he saw how late it was—well, for him, Sam was probably still asleep. Nine in the a.m. was never early in the Winchester household, but Sam was apparently raised in a barn and slept till ungodly hours on his days off from lab work. Dean stood slowly, not taking any chances, but he grinned when he felt strong and relaxed. Castiel had a talent that would be the envy of many, for sure. Dean wondered how Sam was taking it. Unlike Dean, he had been raised relatively in the dark about magic. Dean doubted Sam had even made the connections when it came to his own brother. Dean didn’t just carve trinkets, as Sam had put it so eloquently. There was a reason Castiel came to him for his wares, as well as the others in the town who knew of him.

It’s not as if he was keeping it a secret from Sam, really. He just didn’t know how to tell him after all this time, especially since Sam hadn’t even _noticed_. It was like he was a pro at ignoring the magic around him. Maybe it was his scientist lizard brain. Yeah, there had to be some sort of explanation as to why Sam _still_ hadn’t noticed the absence of actual woodworking equipment in Dean’s “workshop” beneath his apartment.

If he didn’t believe in witches after spending an evening with Castiel, who had more trouble than anyone Dean ever knew with keeping a cap on his magic, then Dean would have to say Sam was hopeless. He ambled down the stairs to the kitchen, glancing at the basket Sam had left on the counter last night. Dean frowned, sure that Castiel had made the basket for Sam, not Dean. He’d have to give it to him later if Sam dropped by for “breakfast”—which would most likely end up being around lunch time. He set the coffeemaker and rooted through the basket himself, vaguely remembering Sam showing him what was inside it the night before. He couldn’t help it if he was a little groggy; Castiel’s potion hit fast and it hit hard, always had, leaving him in a concentrated alcoholic stupor minus the hangover the next morning.

He smiled when he saw the carefully crafted seed packets; he would have to take Sam to his field so they could plant them. He sorted through the various jars of preserves and sauces and decided Sam wouldn’t miss the smaller jar of apple butter nestled between a bag of homemade wheat crackers and a larger jar of peach preserves. He hummed and pulled the baggie of biscuits from yesterday’s breakfast down from the pantry. He placed two on a paper plate and stuck it in the microwave, muttering a verse of Free Bird while he fiddled with the twine wound around the cloth covering the lid. He grunted in exasperation when his fingers fumbled over the string and no matter what he tried he couldn’t get it open. His thumb bumped a piece of paper tied to the lid he hadn’t noticed before. He looked at it and stifled a snort.

“Nice try Dean,” it read in Castiel’s easily recognizable, spidery scrawl, “but this is for Sam, not you! C.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Dean muttered with a grin, “he’s been practicing.”

“Practicing what?”

“Sam!” Dean said, fumbling with the jar before he placed it safely on the counter. “You’re up early.”

“Figured I’d check on you. I feel really bad about last night.”

“Don’t, it’s not your fault, I just overreacted.” Dean placated, leaning against the counter as Sam walked in.

“You look better,” Sam grinned, hopping up on a stool.

“Yeah, feel loads better. Hey, you mind opening this for me?” Dean asked, scooting the jar of apple butter towards Sam. His brother caught it easily but raised his eyebrow at the paper.

“Dean, this is mine.”

“What, you gonna eat it? I thought you hated apple butter.”

“I haven’t tried any in ages. Wh-who knows, I might like it after all,” Sam deflected with a blush. Dean grinned wolfishly and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Don’t tell me you’re only eating it ‘cause Cas gave it to you. He won’t be offended if you don’t, he has no way of knowing what you like and dislike.”

“Shut up, Dean! I just want to try it!”

“Fine,” Dean shrugged. He turned to get the biscuits out of the microwave and plopped them down in front of him.

“Go on, try some then.” Dean urged, handing him a knife. Sam wrinkled his nose but grabbed the plate nonetheless. Dean struggled not to laugh when Sam smeared the thick brown paste over the sliced biscuit. It was no secret in their household that Sam hated apple butter with a passion, and he waited with bated breath for Sam’s reaction. Sam paused before taking a bite, licking his lips and nervously glancing Dean’s way.

“Go on,” Dean reiterated with a smirk. Sam grunted and took a bite. He chewed for a while, staring resolutely down at the offending bit of food before swallowing.

“Wow,” Sam gushed, face lighting up in delight.

“What, you like it?” Dean griped.

“Yeah, this is wonderful, I’ve never had apple butter that tastes like this before,” he said, taking a few more hurried bites, finishing the biscuit and licking his fingers free of any trace of the treat. Dean groaned in defeat and moved to the fridge to get his own jam.

“Come on, you can have some too,” Sam sighed dramatically, and Dean snorted, slamming the refrigerator door. 

“Damn right I can have some. Cas’s been holding out on me, hasn’t made any new apple butter in a few months. He said something about the apples not being ready to give up or some shit, but I know better, he just wanted to pull out all the stops with you.”

“Dean, please…” Sam groaned, face as red as Castiel’s prized tomatoes and Dean just grinned. It was easy to tell that Castiel favored Sam, more so than anyone else Dean had ever seen. Castiel had learned by now that he should always ask for payment, he stopped giving things away ages ago. The basket full of treats merely solidified Dean’s hunch that Castiel wanted to get to know Sam better. And by the way Sam was blushing and avoiding Dean’s knowing looks, Sam felt the same.

 

The day of the brunch Sam was a nervous wreck. He twisted his hands over and over in the front of his sweater and Dean smirked knowingly. They walked to Castiel’s house, given that Dean’s leg was already feeling “loads better,” and the weather was thankfully cooperating for once. Rain had been pouring on and off for that past month, and Sam eyed the sky warily. He didn’t like the look of those clouds.

“Would you just relax?” Dean griped when they rounded the corner, “You look like you’re ready to explode.”

The closer they got to Castiel’s house the worse Sam felt until he was trailing a good few feet behind his brother. He hadn’t felt this nervous since the day before presenting his 3rd grade science fair project.

“Breathe,” Dean reminded him when they reached Castiel’s fence and Sam took several deep breaths, counting the steps to Castiel’s door hoping that it would help. It didn’t.

Dean walked ahead of him and rang the doorbell and Sam busied himself with perusing the cracks in the chipped paint on the door frame. Then Castiel opened the door and all that awkwardness, nervousness and unease melted away.

Castiel had his glasses perched on the edge of his noise again—looking in danger of falling off, actually—and he was also wearing his trademark orange slippers. His hair? Sam believed it to be forever tousled and unruly, but Sam loved it. He was wearing an overly large beige sweater this time, and it had an endearingly cute design in the center that made it look like a little cartoon animal face, most likely a bear. He was also wearing a crisp white dress shirt underneath the sweater, perhaps in an attempt to stave off the cold, and the collar was slightly askew and the bottom of the shirt stuck out beneath the sweater. Despite it being slightly chilly he was once again wearing shorts—and thankfully not boxers, Sam didn’t think he could handle that.

“Sam, Dean, good morning!” Castiel greeted briskly, and Sam had nearly forgotten Dean was there. Sam blushed when Castiel caught his gaze and Castiel did the same. He ushered them in, babbling in a way that Sam was starting to believe was normal for him. It was actually kind of…cute, to say the least. Castiel just had this passion for whatever he happened to be talking about, and far be it from Sam to have him stop.

“Where’s Balthazar?” Dean asked during a pause in Castiel’s ramblings about humidity levels in the house, “I heard he was in town.”

“Oh, he’s out in the garden. He’s helping me expand the succulent patch, and between you and me,” Castiel whispered, sidling up next to Sam with a grin on his face, “they really deserve it, they’re coming in rather nicely this year and, well, I thought they deserved a few more lovely neighbors.”

Dean laughed and Sam smiled down at the witch who seemed to practically melt in response.

“Just like us, huh?” Dean joked.

“Yes,” Cas agreed absently, still looking up at Sam who, for the life of him, could not look away, “just like us.”

Dean coughed into his hand, looking more than a little smug, and Castiel jerked away and skittered off to the kitchen. Some hanging planters bobbed and swayed as he ran by and somewhere deep in the house some chimes tinkled.  

“You boys want some coffee? Balthazar brought over excellent beans from Italy and only just now thought to share them with me! How horribly greedy of him…”

“We’d love some,” Dean answered, making his way down the hall after him. Sam was happy to see that his limp wasn’t overly prominent today. He would always have it now that his leg was weak, and Sam reminded himself to thank Castiel once again for the medicine he made for Dean, it was quite obviously working wonders even days later. Sam followed behind after removing his shoes. Already the extravagant scent of gourmet coffee filled the house and he heard a faint sizzling from the kitchen. Castiel must have already started the food.

The kitchen itself was as bright and wonderful as Sam remembered it to be. There were more pots and pans out on the stove bubbling and sizzling, full of mushrooms and tomatoes and eggs and even a separate skillet full of bacon and sausage and a few stray slices of ham. Dean quickly took over the carnivorous side of the stove and Castiel smiled up at him and thanked him profusely, immediately attending to the mushrooms as they had begun to smoke a little.

“Help yourself to some coffee, Sam,” Castiel said, motioning to the left where a pot of steaming brew and a few mugs were set out on a trolley by the garden door. Sam poured himself a liberal amount, as well as a mug for Dean, adding just the right amount of milk and sugar, stirring it and setting it by Dean’s elbow. Dean nodded his thanks, all his attention on the meat in the skillet. Sam sat back down at the table and drank his coffee in slow sips. It was piping hot and he winced when he burnt his tongue.

“Don’t make me come over there,” Sam heard Castiel chuckle and Sam grinned, looking up at him over the brim of the coffee mug.

“Ignore him,” Dean said.

“I just don’t like him hurting himself that’s all…” Castiel sighed.

“He’s not a wimp, Cas.”

“He’s sitting right here, too.” Sam interjected. Castiel fidgeted and shifted around before abandoning the stove to rush out to the garden.

“Balthazar, breakfast is ready!” He shouted out the door and Sam barely heard Balthazar’s response before Castiel slammed the door and hurried back to the cupboard to bring out the dishes and cutlery. Sam got up to help and Castiel smiled in response and passed him the plates. They moved around the kitchen and the table, bumping into each other and each time they laughed awkwardly and went the opposite direction. Dean watched them from the stove as he plated all the food and he quirked his eyebrow at Sam who flushed and looked away. He knew he was acting like a teenager around Castiel but he couldn’t help it. Around him he felt young and stupid again, like anything could happen.

 

Castiel was trying—really, he was—but Sam kept running into him and Dean kept giving him those knowing looks of his and he was fit to chew his lip off before breakfast even began. He fidgeted after the table was set and he busied himself with fetching the jams and preserves from the pantry as well as the biscuits he had prepared earlier. He uttered a soft spell, glancing about to ensure that Sam hadn’t heard him, and the basket warmed beneath his fingers. Soft golden light filled the dimness of the pantry, illuminating the shelves for spare seconds before going out. The biscuits would be as warm as they had when they came out of the oven. He smiled at his small accomplishment and brought the basket and the jams back to the table.

“Might want to get some more of that apple butter out,” Dean muttered when he came up next to him to help with the heavy jars, “Sam really, _really_ likes it.”

“You better not be just saying that,” Castiel chuckled before he went back to get the larger jar, “I know how much you like it.”

“Nah, I’ll let Sam eat it all this time.”

“You both will eat poor Cassie out of house and home,” Balthazar chuckled. He wiped his hands off on an already dirtied apron with a flower patch sewn on the front of it. Castiel frowned; that was his apron and Balthazar was only getting it dirty.

“I highly doubt that. You’re the one freeloading in his house.”

“Am not!” Balthazar gasped, mocking offense, “I happen to be taking residence at a local hotel, thank you very much.”

“Despite my insistence that he stay here with me where it wouldn’t cost him a penny, and he even insists on tending to my garden and helping around the house _and_ cooking.” Castiel interrupted.

“Careful, Balthazar, you’re starting to sound like Cas’s little homemaker.”

Castiel laughed along with Balthazar and Dean, and glanced at the table when Sam did not. His cheeks were red and he wasn’t looking their way, and Castiel immediately felt horrible. They were all standing over by the stove, alienating Sam at the table, talking nonsense and offending him by leaving him out of the conversation! Castiel was stricken.

“Hey, man, breathe,” Dean muttered, elbowing his side. Castiel spluttered and for a moment it looked as if Sam was about to rise to help him but thought better of it. That was the absolute last thing Castiel needed, for Sam to come up behind him to rub his back and pat on it as if he was some child. He blushed in mortification, and also at the mere thought of Sam touching him. He wanted, no, _craved_ it, but there was no way that Sam could _possibly_ want that from him, they had only talked a handful of times, and besides, Sam probably had some girlfriend or something, no room for the little weird witch down the street. Castiel coughed lightly and straightened, determined to make it through the meal as if he had merely invited a friend over for tea, and _not_ Sam Winchester, the man who had managed to steal his heart away faster than Castiel could blink.

“Alright, alright, let’s all settle down and eat, shall we?” Balthazar said, bringing a large bowl to the table nearly overflowing with food at that point. He placed it on the edge and it teetered for a frightening moment and Castiel winced and snapped his fingers behind his back. Sam sneezed and the table popped and expanded enough for the bowls and plates and all the food to be rearranged comfortably. Sam frowned and took a napkin from the table, excusing himself. Dean gave Castiel one of his looks again and Castiel shrugged, sitting down across from Sam’s seat at the table.

He might as well make use of the time Sam was gone, so he snapped again and food started traveling to their plates; meats to the Winchesters and only a thin slice of ham to Balthazar and then an even portion of eggs and vegetables to all, with an extra helping of champignon and grape tomatoes for Castiel himself. He clapped and the coffee pot whistled and steamed, heating again as if it had just been brewed, and the rich drink poured through the air in a high arch down into his cup. He grinned when a single sugar cube struggled out of the bowl of its fellows and marched straight to his cup, diving in along with the cream and milk that trickled over from the open refrigerator.

Sam walked back into the kitchen almost as soon as the last drop of milk plopped into the cup and Castiel was quick to grab a spoon to start stirring. Sam paused and squinted at the table and Castiel heard Dean suck in a quick breath, and then Sam shrugged and plopped back into his seat. Dean let it out in a gush and stabbed his sausage with a fork. Castiel frowned at him and Dean frowned right back. Castiel sighed. It wasn’t his fault that using magic, especially around friends, was so addictive. He had longed to perform group magic like he used to back home, when their kitchen was alive and glowing with it, nearly humming under their combined magic, but he couldn’t get that in the states.

“So, um, how’s your job, Sam?” Castiel asked after a moment, silence only broken by the clinking of tableware and Broom creaking in the corner, dangerously close to falling off the cabinets again, most likely to cause a racket for attention. Honestly, Castiel would have to have a good long talk with that broom. He gave it a stern look and it stopped right at the ledge before rolling back to the wall.

“It’s fine, though I would hesitate to call it a job,” Sam chuckled, “I don’t really get to do much of anything, I think I’m there just to get people coffee and to do peoples reports for them.”

“Well, that’s just terrible! You should be doing what you came here to do, science! Right…?” Castiel trailed off and laughed a little, hoping he wasn’t too overzealous. Sam answering smile was blinding.

“Well, half of science, good science anyway, is numbers, and a lot of ‘em. It’s my job to make sure all those numbers are straight and I also make sure the samples are fresh and that no one mixes them up. It would be quite a disaster if a sample of a toxic solution got mixed up with a sample of non-toxic solution in the labs, and I just go through every night to make sure everything’s in order. Usually people do their jobs well enough so that I really don’t have much to do during the day.”

“That sounds awfully boring,” Castiel said, barely paying any attention to what Sam was saying, more focused on how he moved when he talked, gesticulating with his hands, the way his face lit up at the prospect of records and numbers—numbers!—of all things.

“It’s not all boring, I just end up with more free time than I can handle is all.”

“Well, maybe I could visit you sometime.”

“Cassie,” Balthazar interrupted and Castiel stomped on his foot under the table.

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Absolutely,” Castiel smiled. Dean was also giving him worried looks, and thankfully for him he was out of stomping range. Dean put his hand under the table and snapped and Sam’s answering sneeze was louder than the first and he groaned, keeping one hand firmly planted over his nose. He grabbed several napkins this time and sheepishly excused himself. Once he was gone from the room and they heard him open the bathroom door Castiel punched Dean’s shoulder.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?!” He hissed, still mindful of the fact that Sam could walk in at any moment.

“If he hasn’t figured it out by now, he’s an idiot,” Dean scoffed.

“Well, even so, I’d hate for his very first experience with magic to be _sneezing jinxes_ every time we have to hide something!”

“I just _really_ don’t want him to find out yet, that’s all!” Dean said.

“Oh, he’ll find out at the rate you two are going. I haven’t used a lick of magic all morning.” Balthazar said.

“Shut up,” they both said in unison. Castiel sighed and looked down at his plate. The tomatoes were starting to roll around, tackling the mushrooms and he separated them with a wall of scrambled eggs. They were right of course. If Castiel even set foot into that laboratory those machines would mess with his powers and vice versa. He didn’t want to destroy Sam’s only workplace. He groaned, frustrated for once with his magic, and thankfully Sam walked back into the kitchen before Dean could say anything else.

 

After breakfast Castiel invited Sam out into his garden, and Sam had to take several steadying breaths before agreeing. It would be the first time he actually went _into_ Castiel’s garden, not just looking at it over a fence or from a window.

“I’d love to,” he answered, and Castiel barely waited to see if he was following before he opened the door, stepping outside. Sam paused for a moment by the door, looking down at his socked feet with a grimace before he stepped out after him. The air was surprisingly warm out in the garden, nothing like how it was earlier when he and Dean walked to the house. He shrugged and attributed it to the later hour. It was sunny but no matter where Sam looked the light didn’t hurt his eyes. Sam followed Castiel as he wandered around the patches and planter boxes scattered around the lot, listening intently as Castiel explained what each plant was and what he could do with it, like the hundreds of daisies Castiel pointed out in the corner that could be used as an astringent and for herbal remedies.

They turned left, taking a path that Sam hadn’t noticed before that took them down a narrow passageway between two large bushes in full bloom, and Sam couldn’t tell what exactly they were and Castiel wasn’t taking the time to stop and explain. Sam stumbled on a wayward root and cursed under his breath and Castiel reached back to take his hand, hardly breaking stride. Castiel remained focused resolutely forward and Sam stared at the back of his head. His ears were red.

Castiel’s hands were warm and soft; Sam had been expecting calluses at least. Sam’s fingers entwined with Castiel’s own more delicate ones, and for the first time that day their interaction didn’t feel awkward of forced, it felt just right.

When they came out from between the bushes they were at the edge of a clearing. Sam frowned and looked behind them, confused. He couldn’t see the house from where they were, the bushes were too high, and he had never seen this clearing before. A large willow was in the center surrounded by blankets and pillows and short lawn chairs.

“I like to come here whenever I’m…well, I like to come here.” Castiel said, dropping Sam’s hand.

“It’s beautiful,” Sam said, brushing his fingers through the strands of leaves hanging from the branches. “My mom used to tell me these trees attracted bugs and she told me to stay away from them.”

“Not here,” Castiel replied softly, patting the trunk, “no bugs in my garden, unless they’re the good kind.”

“Good kind?”

“Oh you know, pollinators and pest controllers.”

“Ah, I just don’t like bugs…”

“I get it,” Castiel smiled.

Sam walked around the trunk and made sure he wasn’t tracking any mud onto the blankets, they looked practically pristine despite being outdoors and underneath a tree for who knows how long.

“Would you like to sit down?” Castiel offered, and Sam rounded the trunk and saw Castiel already sitting on a pillow. He was biting his lip and dragging the blankets around him to form a pseudo nest of quilts and throws.

“Sure,” Sam readily agreed, plopping down a little too excitedly and he got a sore bottom for his efforts too, but he didn’t care, not after he got on Castiel’s level and was face to face with the man. Sam was very much aware of how much he waxed poetic in his head about Castiel’s eyes, but being this close and this personal with them was something incredible and different and intimate. Castiel wouldn’t look away, and neither could Sam. Castiel’s mouth dropped open, only a little, but it was enough to catch Sam’s attention.

“S-Sam?” Castiel whispered.

“Yeah?” Sam said, and he could barely hear himself they were talking so quietly now.

“You, um…you like it here? I mean, in the garden? In my house?”

“I love it,” Sam answered, finally realizing his awe at the place, “this place is wonderful, it’s like…it’s like _magic_ , Castiel.”

“Well, I _am_ a witch.” Castiel laughed, leaning forward and quirking a brow.

“Right, right,” Sam chuckled, and he felt himself lean forward too, and he put his hand down to catch his balance, and it fell right over Castiel’s. Castiel gasped, but didn’t move. He gaped up at Sam, frozen, his eyes were so wide, he looked so scared, and Sam couldn’t breathe. Sam blinked, and half expected something to happen, something crazy like the rest of the weird crap that had been happening the whole morning. But nothing happened. He blinked again, and again, and Castiel was still there, still so close and warm and just…there.

Sam really couldn’t even explain what happened in the next second, but one moment they were separate, and then the next he felt Castiel’s lips against his and it was just so right. He felt warmth all around him, he had his eyes closed so he couldn’t see but he imagined they were surrounded by something soft and bright, something like love, and when they finally pulled apart Sam almost didn’t want to open his eyes, he didn’t want to see disappointment, or rejection, or anger even. Of course he had to at some point, but Castiel pulled his hand out from beneath his and instead twined their fingers together. Sam opened his eyes and before he could even see Castiel he noticed instead the lights floating around their heads. No, not lights, fireflies.

“Sorry,” Castiel said, and the fireflies flew away, but it was still dim. Sam peeked up between the branches and leaves and saw clouds covering the sky. It looked like it was going to rain soon.

“F-for what?” Sam finally asked, heart in his throat.

“The fireflies…you just said you didn’t like bugs.”

“It’s okay,” Sam breathed, “it’s okay.”

And they stayed under the tree together, Castiel’s hand still in his, until thunder rolled overhead and they had to run inside, back through the path through the bushes in the rain, laughing the whole way. 


	3. The Move

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which brooms aren't allowed through security, and one should bring a large vehicle when shopping at Ikea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some warnings for this chapter: previous non-explicit Megstiel and the reason why the rating was bumped up from mature to explicit~
> 
> I am soooooooooooooooooo sorry this took so long :((((( so many things got in the way and then I just kept adding to this chapter so I figured I'd post it before I could add anything else haha;;; hope you enjoy the longest chapter yet~

When Castiel returned from boarding school he was a changed man. He’d spent nearly ten years there under their strict tutelage, and now he had returned, a pure blood witch with a proper education. Of course he had made small changes to the curriculum to suit his needs. Michael welcomed him with open arms and Castiel was quick to return the familial warmth—he’d been away from home for so long—before he quickly excused himself from further social meetings, reminding Michael that he’d had a long journey back home and he wished to rest for the remainder of the evening.

Once Michael was gone Castiel stole away through the window and dashed off into the fields. He came across his birthplace, the Willow House, in no time. The small cottage was in major disrepair, and when he peeked inside the clouded windows he saw the interior was a mess. No one from the Manor House had come to clean it or even bothered to at least cover the furniture in his absence. He frowned and clucked his tongue in the direction of the Manor House then returned his attention to the cottage. At least it was mostly intact, just overgrown by ivy and various other species of undergrowth.

“Oh my, if mother had seen this…” Castiel murmured with a shake of his head, tapping at the strands of ivy to help them curl away from the house. He set up a quick latticework by the old willow and directed the ivy there. It curled around the old wood and became a tangled mess but at least it was happy and out of the way. He repeated the process all around the house, tapping and snapping his fingers at small bushes and weeds that littered his path until the outside of the house looked as much like it did before as he could get it.

He glanced again at the murky windows and sighed. He’d have to save cleaning the house proper for another day. He returned to the Manor House and climbed back through his window. He shed his heavy travel robes and they fell to the floor in a dusty mess. He kicked them into the corner with a grimace and he went to the bathroom to freshen up before bed.

He had never grown used to the Manor House’s opulence, especially compared to the simple charms of the Willow House. He ran a bath and in the meantime he retrieved his toiletry bag from the main room. He snapped and the various items floated and marched out of the open top, scattering to their respective places over the marble sink and the cabinet above. He snagged a bar of honey soap as it cartwheeled past his cheek and he held it under his nose, breathing in the familiar smell of home. He set it down on the edge of the tub, as well as a small wash towel. He hadn’t really been paying attention to the water and he squeaked a little when it overflowed. He turned off the faucet and snapped, clearing the excess water from the floor. He sighed and wondered how non-magic folk got along at all without it.

Castiel hummed a listless little tune as he upended a small bottle of rose colored oil into the bath, grinning when a small cloud of scented air puffed up from the water; it smelled of honey and caramel and Cas supposed he was just feeling rather nostalgic, his mother used to make some of the finest honey soaps and he’d yet to emulate the recipe. He slid out of his undergarments, and soap bubbled up from the water too, creating a smooth layer of froth that Castiel couldn’t wait to dip into. It had been forever since he’d had the proper time for a bath, in fact he’d become more used to quick showers at the end of a long day in classes and study than the luxury of a long soak. But no matter, he was home now and he had all the time in the world.

He stepped into the deep tub and sighed, the water was the perfect temperature and he slid in up to his nose with a happy hum. He stuck his feet out of the soapy layer above the water and wiggled his toes, extremely glad to be rid of his traveling shoes. He’d become much too used to running around the gardens barefoot, shoes and socks were a bother. He stared up at the rows of drying herbs on his ceiling, a sharp pang in his heart at seeing the state of his mother’s home. He would return tomorrow and start working on it, if he couldn’t completely restore it then the least he could do was clean it, which was more than could be said of what Michael had done. Plucked Castiel from it and abandoned it, is what he did. Castiel bit his lip and looked away, to the sink counter. It wasn’t Michael’s fault. He was only doing what was necessary. Castiel had been a child, in need of a family, of warmth and care. He had gotten that only for a short while, then off to school for him.

“Never mind about the school…” Castiel grumbled, starting to build a lather with the honey soap, “it was what you needed, to be sure.”

He had never forgotten the things his mother had taught him, merely augmented her lessons with the things he had learned at school. He was certainly powerful now, but power was something he had never desired, he’d leave that to the hex builders and the witches like his older brother, who actually needed that power to control such large families and estates. Castiel was content with his plants.

It wasn’t quite that cold yet, but he could feel the winter approaching, could feel the ache in his bones and he shivered. The water warmed around him sympathetically and he leaned his head back against the lip of the tub, shutting his eyes. He had no idea what he would do with his life now. The thought had never occurred to him that he would actually graduate and would therefore be expected to contribute to the family and society. He hadn’t a clue as to what he could do for the family, let alone himself.

He whined and drew up his knees, curling his arms around them. How he longed to be free to do as he wished, to not carry his family name like a literal weight on his shoulders, like a massive rock doomed to drive him into the ground. Michael would certainly be the one to place him in such a position. Castiel was just like his mother, he had no desire for power, nor wealth, he had no real ambition. He just wanted to fade into the background and be left to do as he pleased. But of course he knew that was an unrealistic notion. He was the last of Michael’s great line, the last child born of magic, and he knew Michael wouldn’t let him slip away so easily.

Castiel wanted space for himself, and whatever family wished to join him. Maybe he wanted to settle down some where off-estate, either by himself or with another it didn’t matter. His cheeks heated at the prospect of marriage. He tried to picture what it would be like, a house full of laughter and warmth, and perhaps even children. He smiled and bit his lip, thinking about what they would look like, if he’d prefer a girl or a boy, what they would wear, where they would go for schooling—traditional or new age—who their mother or father would be. He sank deeper into the tub, cheeks blazing now and not from the heat.

He hadn’t given much thought to a partner, or even marriage, but it was something he wanted, eventually. Gender didn’t matter to him, he decided that long ago when both boys and girls approached him at boarding school. There was one girl, Meg Masters—an American witch in a British boarding school, oh the whispers about _her_ —who had particularly stuck in his mind. She knew what she wanted from him and she took it, with no complaints from him of course, but she hadn’t been looking for anything emotionally substantial, just a distraction from their peers. They were both on the fringes of most circles, and their type tended to stick together. They were together for a while, until she moved on to other prey, leaving Castiel open for further exploits. He never considered himself sexually active, or even devious, Meg had called him “vanilla” and it was true, but he longed for that one special someone to come along and tear down his boundaries, to leave him open, raw and aching for more.

Meg had awakened certain _proclivities_ in him, desires and tastes he had never considered before in his heavily sheltered life. He much preferred the touch of a man to a woman—or a woman who didn’t hesitate to take command in bed, _that_ he knew he liked for certain—and he preferred gentle play over anything rough or particularly heated. Meg had been gentle with him, oh so gentle.

He moaned softly at the memory of one of their many nights spent in the seclusion of his dormitory room, cut off from anything else that might have mattered, or _anyone_ else for that matter. He stretched out in the bathtub and chased the phantom memory of her fingers on his skin, her lips on his own—he lightly touched his lips with his fingers, smoothing over the slightly chapped, puffy flesh—he lightly pinched one of his nipples like she used to do, light enough to be a tease yet with enough force for a promise, and he couldn’t stifle a sharp gasp. Heat pooled in his stomach, centered between his thighs and he squirmed, sweating now, but not quite at the point of arousal he wanted to reach, that rapturous peak that left him dizzy and cotton-headed for an hour after, at least. His hand traveled lower, past his chest, fingers passing over his ribcage—expanding and contracting with each panted breath, “like a little bird you are, Cas,” she had purred in his ear—down over his soft stomach, through the coarse patch of hair above his genitals and it was there that he stopped.

He moaned quietly and pushed up to meet his hand, how he could be timid in mind yet his body strained in lust he would never understand, and he had no desire to explore the notion, at least not at the moment. He touched himself the way his body clearly craved, cupping his burgeoning erection, pressing the heel of his palm down over the length, mimicking the way Meg had teased him so many times before. With his fingers he toyed with his balls, just touching them at first, then pressing between them, rolling them over his fingers, pressing at the skin beneath them. He moaned louder at the touch, though it was incomparable to when it was performed by another’s more skilled fingers. He would make do with what he had. He practically gnawed on his lip when his fingertips traveled lower, pressing between his cheeks to caress over that tight furl of muscle that could be used to wring such pleasures from his body the likes of which he would not soon forget. He merely pressed over it for now, rubbing his rim in a circular motion that quickly had him panting, hips bucking slightly that sent water sloshing about in the tub.

He pushed his other hand under the water to grip his now full cock, nearly throbbing with need and he sobbed when he gave it a particularly harsh jerk. He toyed with the foreskin the way Meg used to—how he longed for a partner at the moment who would play with him with their mouth, how he longed to do the same for another man—and with each careful tug he pressed over his hole with his other fingers. He wouldn’t last long, he could feel that familiar rush of heat bubbling just beneath his skin, longing to burst free in a rush of passion and desire and uncontrollable power that would surely send the loose odds and ends around the bathroom to the ground. He pumped his fist and gasped with each press of his fingers, small noises of pleasure punched from his lungs each time. He had no reason to be quiet, his rooms were warded for privacy, yet he was far too used to it by now. Living in a boarding school for the better part of his adolescence left him with a certain skittishness that would take years to wear off.

He jerked faster and harder, moaning louder now, emboldened. He rubbed over the head with his thumb, feeling the slickness of pre-ejaculate that Meg had described as salty sweet, and in a fit of remembered pleasure he forgot himself and pressed ever harder with his other hand until the tip of his middle finger popped past his rim. He cried and sobbed, his hips pressed down of their own accord in search of more of that blissful contact and he clenched around the digit, imagining it was someone else’s hand he was riding as he came under the churning water. There was an audible pop over his cry and the room exploded with noise as everything on the counter crashed to the floor, flung against the walls or hit the ceiling. The hanging herbs fell from their restraints and rained over his head and the water and he spluttered, shouting in dismay when the water nearly boiled around him. He jumped out on shaky legs and slumped over the cool tile, pressing his cheek against the wall. He couldn’t help but laugh when he saw the state of the bathroom, it was as if a small bomb had gone off and it would take some time to clean even with magic.

The remaining water in the tub was bubbling and steam nearly clouded the small room, the herbs in the tub were definitely unsalvageable now, and he had globs of semen stuck in his pubic hair and on his legs. He was sure he had sprigs of parsley and sage in his hair, and bits of rosemary were all over his wet arms and shoulders. He wrinkled his nose at the mingling scents and dropped his head back on the wall and grinned, despite it all.

“Never masturbate in the tub ever again,” he told himself with a nod, “or in the bathroom, for that matter.”

He stood on wobbly legs and snapped, clearing away the mess on his legs and stomach. He wiped the pieces of herbs on his arms and shoulders onto the floor and stepped around the small piles already accumulating, making their way to the garbage can in the corner. He cleared the water on the floor and snapped again, hearing the telltale pop of the tub stopper coming unplugged. He grabbed a towel as it flew by his head and he ruffled his hair, dislodging the remaining sprigs of herbs as he left his bathroom, naked. He frowned when he saw an outfit placed for him on the foot of his bed. He glanced around his room, dropping his towel down to cover his groin. He warily approached the bed, poking at the dressy looking robes in disdain. He had been hoping he’d have the remainder of the evening to himself, but it seemed like he was mistaken. He dried and dressed, exasperated.

The robes were the standard deep blue, white and black of Michael’s house, though a bit tight around his torso. He grimaced and settled for leaving the center buttons undone. Hopefully the company he would be keeping that evening wouldn’t be anyone too important. They would just have to deal with his inappropriate appearance.

He left his room and shut the door quietly, whispering a soft spell to lock it. He was no match for the house’s magic, but it would do for now. He swept through the halls and reached the main drawing room within a few minutes and saw Michael seated in front of the roaring hearth with his visitor. He looked up and saw Castiel by the door and frowned, only for a moment, before he smiled and excused himself. Castiel drew back and scowled when Michael approached and pulled him off to the side, fussing with his robes.

“What a state you are in, Castiel, your hair and your clothes are a mess,” he scorned.

“I was not told I would be entertaining guests this evening, Michael,” Castiel said, with more than a little spite in his tone, “I told you I was weary from my trip home and wished to have the evening to myself.”

“He was already on his way to the estate, I could not turn him away simply because you were _tired_ ,” he mocked. Castiel huffed and squeaked when Michael yanked on his robes and buttoned them in place and attempted to pat his hair down into some semblance of neatness.

“But I can’t _breathe_ ,” Castiel hissed, trying to bat his hands away.

“You’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Ugh.”

Michael sighed and straightened his robes, scoffing when he saw his bare feet, before pushing him into the room. He led him to the fireplace and the smaller chair by his own and the man in the adjacent chair stood. He wasn’t that much taller than Castiel, though he was obviously far older, even older than Michael, and Castiel didn’t recognize him. His magic was weak, felt foggy and strange to him, and he recognized it to be second generation magic. While the man might not be a full witch himself, he came from magic. There was something off about him, and Castiel shied into Michael’s side when the man smiled and half-bowed in greeting.

“Castiel, this is Fergus MacLeod, better known as Crowley, he has come to enter negotiations for your hand.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well let’s not rush into things,” Crowley interjected, grasping and placing a kiss on the back of Castiel’s hand. Castiel snatched it away and stepped closer to Michael, for once finding shelter and comfort in his overbearing, blanketing magic.  

“Y-you are too forward, sir,” Castiel stammered, dropping his eyes to the floor. Michael squeezed his shoulder and steered him to the chair next to his own. Crowley took the hint and returned to his own seat, watching Castiel as he sat and squirmed, fighting for a full breath through the restraint of his robes.

“Forgive me, your brother and I have been talking for some months now about a merging of our two families, I merely assumed you had been made aware of the situation.”

“I wasn’t made aware of anything.”

“I apologize,” he said, glancing Michael’s way. The man merely crossed his legs and smiled.

This was not what Castiel wanted at all. He wanted love, he wanted a family, sure, but he could tell almost immediately that he would not find such things with this man. He vaguely recognized Crowley’s name in connection with a major branch of magical supply shops in London, ones Balthazar had to compete with for customers. This man capitalized off of magic and its community, and Castiel didn’t appreciate that one bit.

“I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing,” Castiel said, trying to stand. A blast of Michael’s power kept him in his seat and he struggled for a minute more then slumped in frustration.

“If the boy is unwilling then I don’t want to force him into anything,” Crowley said slowly, though Castiel didn’t believe him to be so noble.

“Nonsense, he is past the appropriate age to receive suitors should they come, and with such an extensive pedigree he is a gem of a witch indeed.”

“I am no product to be bartered over,” Castiel hissed, a sympathetic burst of his own magic blasting Michael’s back for just long enough for him to stand. “I will marry who I want, when I want, _if_ I want,” he glared at Michael, who was red in the face and Castiel knew it wasn’t from embarrassment, “and that is certainly not now, not with this man.”

Crowley’s eyebrows were nearly up to his hairline, but he was grinning from ear to ear. With one final look at his brother Castiel left the room, tugging the buttons on his robe loose as he walked. Once he turned the corner he ran to his room, fighting against Michael’s power as it screeched through the halls, tugging at his hair and clothes, pushing him back to the drawing room. He fought harder and made his way to his room, rattling off the password and the doors flew open. He ran inside and the doors shut behind him, locking with and audible click that echoed in the comforting silence of his room. He hesitated for a moment before he ran into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. It had completely cleaned itself by now, and he struggled out of his robes, tossing them on the floor.

He stood in front of the mirror in his underwear and frowned, staring at the sink. He’d thought things were different now, he’d thought that after he’d gone to school like Michael wanted and actually made an effort to conform to Michael’s wishes that the man would give him some leeway, only to find out that he had been conspiring like this behind his back? He growled in disgust and took his travel bag out from under the sink, refilling it with the essentials—and noticed he’d neglected to unpack his toothbrush, or it made its way back in on its own—and bars of soap and leftover packets of herbs flew around his head and the space behind him. He heard banging on his bedroom door but he ignored it.

His ears were ringing when he went back into his room, throwing his travel bag into his suitcase. Michael’s power was throbbing behind Castiel’s hastily created barrier and he put his travel clothes on again, throwing his cloak around his shoulders. His window was wide enough to squeeze through, always had been.

 

“Cassie?”

“Good evening, Balthazar, sorry to wake you…”

“No, no, come in.”

Castiel shuffled past his older brother with a grateful smile. He left his heavy bag by the door and followed Balthazar into the living room; a plate of small sandwiches and fruit was left out on the table, as well as two glasses of wine and the bottle still in a small bucket of ice.

“I hope I didn’t wake you when I called.”

“Oh, no, I was well into my second glass of wine and the 256th page of my latest find, I hadn’t even noticed the time until you called.”

“That’s good,” Castiel said, sitting across from Balthazar. His brother’s eyes twinkled when Castiel immediately snagged one of the glasses and drank it down and refilled it a minute later.

“Good wine,” Castiel said.

“Should be, I used your grapes.”

“Hmm…”

“Are you going to tell me why you ran away to my house in the middle of the night?”

Castiel finished off his second glass and swirled the remaining drops in the glass, considering what all he’d tell his brother. Balthazar was far removed from the inner workings of the family, had been since around the same time Michael sent Castiel away to school.

“Michael had a man come to the house today, said that he was going to marry me off, never even seen the guy before in my life.”

Balthazar choked on his mouthful of wine and coughed for a few minutes. Castiel stood and patted his back until he stopped coughing. Castiel couldn’t help but laugh despite the situation, he’d never seen his brother’s face get quite so red.

“And what did you say to this interloper?” Balthazar laughed, “I hope you spat in his face! Or at least slapped the man for his insolence.”

“Whom?” Castiel chuckled, pouring them both another glass, “Michael or the man who would marry me for business?”

“Both, if I had it my way!” Balthazar shouted, pausing to take a liberal gulp from his glass. “It’s good you came here. No telling what Michael would have done if you stayed.”

“True.”

“Well you can stay here as long as you like, poor thing,” Balthazar crooned, “unfortunately I must go in to the shop tomorrow morning, I’m expecting a very important customer, you can come with me if you like? We can make a day of it, take you shopping for some proper clothes now that you’ll be living in a non-magic district.”

“Of course, thank you,” Castiel said, sipping his wine. He excused himself for the night and retrieved his bag, lugging it to the guest bedroom he knew to be down the hall to the right. He left Balthazar to read his new manuscript and trusted him to wake him in the morning, hoping he wouldn’t wake up sometime around noon to find Balthazar bent over his reading desk, asleep and drooling over the delicate pages. He placed the half full wine glass on the nightstand and snapped away the layer of dust on the comforter and sheets and fluffed the pillows. He clapped and sent the clothes in his bag through the air, shaking them out and sending them into the chest of drawers in the far corner. It was a charming little room full of warm colors, smells and textures, he’d enjoy his stay for certain.

He tossed his dirty clothes to the ground and glanced to the bathroom for a moment and then decided against a shower. He flopped down on the bed and sighed, closing his eyes. The fact that he had ran out on Michael still hadn’t completely sunk in, and he didn’t really want it to. He wanted to revel in the blurry fuzz of adrenaline that throbbed under his skin with each heartbeat, it felt similar to the times his mother let him run free in the fields, when he’d roll down the hills, laughing and covered in clover and dandelion seeds that tickled his skin and his nose. He clung to that memory, and the strength he drew from it. He pulled the comforter up to his chin and breathed in the familiar smell of lemon and bergamot, of the tea Balthazar favored, his entire house smelled of it, and it was warm and comfortable. He fell asleep easily.

The next morning they both woke bright and early and set off for London, to Balthazar’s shop in the magic district. There were plenty of humans milling about, gawking into each new store window they came across. It was a funny sight, but then again Castiel had looked just about the same only minutes earlier when they made their way through the non-magic districts for lunch and clothes shopping, on foot no less! Broom riding had been outlawed in London due to the many unfortunate accidents it caused, both by witches and humans alike. While out he’d picked out numerous outfits and non-magic odds and ends, including some soap that smelled almost completely similar to his mother’s, and he chewed on a spare bit of honeycomb while they walked.

They hung their brooms by the front door and shrugged off their heavier coats and placed them on the bench under the brooms. The shop was small yet packed to the seams with items from magical antiquity. The hundred year old crystal balls immediately caught his eye, they were in a heavily warded glass case above the antique broom accessories. All manner of magic tools could be found in Balthazar’s shop, and Castiel thought it to be the most interesting place in London.

He didn’t have any sort of proclivity to divination, but owning at least one good crystal ball was thought to be good luck; the older the better. He had wanted his mother’s, but Michael had reclaimed and locked away many of their possessions. They had been willed to Castiel and Castiel alone, yet still Michael refused to return the items to him. Castiel frowned and leaned back from the case, Balthazar’s magic still clinging and tickling at his nose. A stranger would have sneezed after standing so close to the case. He only sniffled instead.

“You can shop later,” Balthazar yelled from somewhere deeper in the shop, “turn the sign and man the front until I get back.”

“I expect payment for this labor,” Castiel chided and Balthazar laughed.

“I’ll give you a little brother discount, how about that?”

“It will have to do,” Castiel sighed dramatically, flipping the store sign from “closed” to “open.”

“Cheeky,” Castiel heard his brother mumble and he grinned. Their banter was something he had sorely missed while he was away, letters weeks apart just weren’t the same. For about a solid hour no one entered the shop, and Castiel had entertained himself with sorting scrying stones by color, and then the bell over the door tinkled, signaling a customer.

“Good morning, sir,” Castiel greeted. The man had scarce made it through the door before he tripped over himself heading for the ancient wands in the glass case to his left.

“Morning,” he said, and Castiel could tell immediately by his accent that he was an American. It wasn’t strange to see one in the magic quarter. Castiel allowed himself to feel the stranger’s magic, and he saw the man stiffen then relax at his gentle prodding. He smelled like spice and oak, drift wood and pine, oil and beeswax, and the wands in the case hummed in his presence, responding to his warmth. The raw wand materials around him strained minutely toward him in their cases.

“Dean Winchester,” Balthazar said, suddenly behind Castiel, and he jumped and released the thread of the stranger’s magic and the materials around the man ceased their rattling.

“Balthazar,” the man greeted in response. No, not just any man, Dean Winchester, the greatest wand maker in North America. Castiel had to physically restrain himself from gaping when Balthazar came around the counter and shook his hand with a warm, familiar smile.

“I knew to expect you, but I didn’t think you’d manage it.”

“If I could have flown a broom across the ocean I would’ve, but that’s illegal, I think,” Dean said, and Castiel could scarcely tell if he was joking or not.

“Well, phobias aside, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Dean looked different than what Castiel had been imagining. He was definitely younger than he expected, as Castiel envisioned the famous wand maker to be some white haired, aging, grumpy old man. In reality he couldn’t have been any older than 30, and his verdant eyes sparked with thinly veiled power. His hair was flecked with sunlit gold, as if the warmth and light of it had followed him into the dim shop. His skin was similarly bronzed, sun kissed from hours of outdoor labor that the dreary London atmosphere could scarce hope to leech away, life seemed to seep from his very pores, and Castiel knew then, without a doubt, that the witch’s power was subtle, but genuine.

“I want you to meet my youngest brother, Cassie.”

“Castiel,” he corrected in an embarrassed mumble, blushing.

“Castiel,” Balthazar accentuated, “just mulled his way through academy.”

“Fresh from the schoolyard, huh?” Dean said, turning his attention fully onto him. They shook hands and where normally a stranger’s magic would spark against his own, Dean’s entwined lazily, smooth as honey, and Castiel had to jerk his hand free as he blushed. It wasn’t quite bonding magic, but Castiel could feel some connection with Dean’s familial line, and judging by Dean’s reaction, he felt the same.

“Um,” Dean started, staring at him with something similar to incredulity. Castiel shuffled and glanced at Balthazar, who was looking between the two of them, just as confused as they were.

“Did something happen? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Balthazar asked, looking at Dean, though he stepped protectively in front of Castiel.

“No, no he didn’t it was…”

“Bonding magic,” Dean said. He had his hands clasped at his sides and he stepped back, wary of Balthazar’s thrumming magic that was steadily building into a low throb throughout the shop. Balthazar stiffened and took Castiel’s arm, pulling him back.

“I’m sorry Winchester, but I won’t allow it, this one’s already been pressured into an attempted farce of a marriage, I won’t allow it to happen again in my presence.”

“Calm down, it wasn’t between us, it’s for someone else,” Castiel said. Dean nodded, and though Balthazar was still a bit leery the magic in the shop tuned down as he relaxed.

“Well if it isn’t for Dean then whose is it? I don’t think I ever heard of a second Winchester, or if Dean married and had children.”

Castiel bristled at the idea of being bound to a mere child, dooming them to a future they might not want, much like how his own life played out.

“No, I never married, not yet anyway so you can relax,” Dean laughed. “And I do have a brother, just no one’s ever heard of him. In fact for a while there I didn’t even know he existed, we were separated. He ain’t a witch though, not a speck of magic in that boy, shame, he’s got the heart for it.”

“H-how old is he?” Castiel asked, remembering Crowley, how much older he was, the feel of control oozing from him like secreted oil.

“Four years younger than me, don’t worry. I’d set up a meeting for you two but fact of the matter is he doesn’t know me yet.”

Castiel frowned. He didn’t want to meet him yet anyway, though the prospect of his intended out amongst the rest of the world, untethered, made him twitchy and anxious. He shouldn’t think that way, the brother Winchester deserved a healthy and full life away from him and magic, as long as he could afford it. The bonding magic between their two lines was strong, he felt it like an electric charge through his blood, rubbing under his skin and bubbling in his insides. It was a calling, one he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny for long, and though his intended wasn’t magically inclined, he would begin to feel the pull too. Meeting Dean triggered it, and he wondered if their meeting was fated or just happy coincidence. The fact that there was someone out there, right now, who was supposed to be his and his alone was extremely comforting. He would have cared what Michael thought of it all before, but now he wanted to move forward, he wanted to see where this new direction in life would take him.

“We won’t necessarily have to set up a meeting. If I move to the United States,” Castiel trailed off and bit his lip, “if I move to the United States then he’ll be drawn to me, he’ll find me, and he’ll find you.”

“Oh, Cassie…”

“N-no I, I think it’s a good idea. I’ve graduated, I’m at the top of my field, and the United States doesn’t have many certified witches do they?”

“Nope,” Dean said, seeming almost amused by the turn of events.

“Here in London I’ll have to battle for a position that I’m overqualified for and live an unhappy life under Michael’s shadow. I know you offered for me to stay with you, Balthazar, but how long would that last before Michael _really_ came for me, a month, two? I don’t want to risk it. Exile to the United States is my best option right now, it’s out of his jurisdiction.”

“And so is _Paris_ , love.”

“Castiel’s got a point,” Dean interrupted, “the East coast hasn’t seen a certified witch in over a century. Sure folks won’t be as opened minded as they are here, but magic is legal and recognized, and I know a few magistrates who’d be _very_ pleased to hear a proper witch is on his way state-side.”

“Not as opened minded?”

“You’ll have your naysayers, nonbelievers, religious fanatics, you know, the usual suspects. Nothing you haven’t seen before, but once you move I can set you up so you’ll have some kick ass insurance and a hell of a lawyer. No one will even think about touching you after I’m done.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I don’t know how soon you’ll be ready to move but a house just went up for sale a few blocks from my apartment, its cute, you’d love it. I’m in tight with the realtor and I could swing you a good deal, after all we’re practically family.”

After a few more exchanged words and telephone numbers and addresses, Castiel was absolutely certain he’d move to Dean’s town. Balthazar was still hesitant, using any opportunity he could to talk him out of it. Castiel knew it wasn’t because his older brother wanted to keep him close, or to stifle him, he was just worried, like any older brother should be, given how close they were, not like Michael. When Dean left them to return to his hotel that night he’d given them both a warm, almost too-tight hug, brushing tears from his eyes though he denied it.

“I’m just happy, you know? All my life I’ve been alone, then I found my brother, then I found you. It’s a miracle.”

After seeing him off they returned to Balthazar’s house, weary and sore from a day on their feet. Castiel dumped his shopping bags by the couch in the living room and collapsed face first onto its worn cushions, groaning when his feet throbbed in pain. He’d ride a broom around for the rest of the week if he had to just to keep off his aching feet. Balthazar tossed his own bags next to Castiel’s and shuffled into the kitchen, a moment later Castiel heard a pop and fizzing and then Balthazar returned with two sparkling flutes of champagne.

“What’s this for?” Castiel groaned, righting himself with some effort, taking the offered glass.

“For the start of your big adventure,” Balthazar smiled, raising his glass in a toast. Castiel grinned and raised his as well, taking a liberal sip.

The next few months were blur. Michael might have tried to make contact with him towards the end but Castiel couldn’t remember exactly, he was too caught up with securing a passport and collaborating with Dean to find the best time for him to fly over. He had to think about how much he wanted to bring with him, it wasn’t like those children’s books, Harry Potter, he couldn’t just speak a word and appear in another place entirely, there were rules upon rules upon rules, and some of the rules in the United States were downright idiotic, though Dean assured him there were ways around them. He decided on bringing a few suitcases of clothes and essentials at first, and Balthazar would ship the rest at a later date. Castiel also planned on buying most of his furniture and such once he was there, once he saw the house. Dean had sent him pictures, and he was right, it was cute and he did like it. It looked plain for now, but Castiel was confident he could liven it up. Dean assured him that the house was flawless and clean, and with his background in carpentry Castiel could only agree with Dean’s judgment.

He had taken to referring to Dean in his own head as a brother, and he was sure Dean felt the same about him. They’d grown closer over the past weeks and Castiel couldn’t wait to meet him again. It was as if there had been a spot for Dean in his heart his entire life, and now it was filled. His feelings weren’t romantic, but they were tender, fond, familial, and he was once again grateful for meeting him.

While Balthazar had been hesitant at the start, he was now practically giddy, counting down the days until Castiel’s departure. They had the date marked with glaring red ink on their calendar, they wouldn’t miss it for the world. The day before was a frantic mess of last minute shopping and packing and checking and rechecking plane tickets and arrival times and even checking the area’s weather, the first time either of them had watched a human news channel. They finished preparing the day before and spent the rest of their time watching human movies and gorging themselves on breakfast foods and gourmet food baskets given to them by various friends and relatives, and of course wine. They’d brought out a vintage bottle of the best chardonnay they could find and managed to drain it completely in a day, and Castiel didn’t care if he had a hangover the next day. He wanted to enjoy the time he had with his brother while it lasted.

They arrived at the airport an hour early, just in case, and more for their nerves. Castiel wanted to settle a little before getting on the plane, because there was no telling what would happen if he panicked in the air. Being in a massive machine was bad enough, but freaking out in one while it was mid-flight would not be good.

“Well,” Balthazar said, floundering now that they’d reached Castiel’s gate. It was currently boarding, but Castiel had a firm hold of Balthazar’s hand and he didn’t exactly want to let go just yet.

“You’ll call?” Castiel asked, choking up.

“Every day,” Balthazar promised, “until you make me stop.”

“I’d never…”

“I know,” Balthazar smiled, pained, Castiel knew, and before he could say anything he’d regret he pulled his older brother into a tight embrace, surreptitiously wiping his eyes behind his back.

“Ok,” Castiel breathed when he let go. He stooped to pick up his carry-on and stepped back, glancing at the entrance to his flight.

“Go on,” Balthazar shooed him, “and make sure you call as _soon_ as you land, yes?”

“Ok,” he said again, flushed and emotional but he walked away, bag clutched tight to his chest. When he stepped onto the plane he cringed when he felt the sides press into him from all around and he breathed deep, glancing down at his information to find his seat.

“First time flyer?”

He jerked back when a clean, manicured hand pulled his ticket out of his hands.

“Um, yes…”

“You don’t need to worry, these things are safer than cars. Your seat’s up at the front of the cabin, on the left, you have the whole row to yourself, how about that?” The flight attendant said kindly, and he nodded and followed the direction she was pointing. “If you need anything don’t hesitate to ask.”

The plane was already a bit crowded, and he wondered how he managed to have an entire row to himself, wondered if that had something to do with Balthazar or Dean or even his family name. Though this airline wasn’t owned by their family or any other magical family for that matter, it wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination that someone had pulled strings for him. He buckled himself in even though the plane was still boarding, and didn’t unbuckle for the rest of the flight. He sat upright and stiff the entire time, refused to look out the window, and held his bag in his lap the entire time. He felt every miniscule lurch and judder during the flight and he winced each time, digging holes in the armrest with his fingernails. He didn’t relax until the plane had stopped completely and people were leaving. He unstuck himself from his seat with a grimace and followed the crowd of passengers into the terminal.

The moment he breathed fresh air—air conditioned, as clean as it can get in a building—he almost buckled down to the floor to kiss it. He controlled himself and managed to make it to the luggage pickup area and found all of his bags. He somehow managed to push them all off to the side to a bench by the wall and he sagged down, shoulders slumped and eyes closed. He made it, and he didn’t really feel all that different either. The ground felt different beneath his feet, less magic in the air, energy still, yes, but not as powerful. He’d have to work with it.

He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket—something Balthazar had purchased for him last minute as a going away present—and turned it on. It had taken an entire day for Balthazar to teach him how to work even its most elementary functions, but he at least knew how to place a call. It buzzed in his hand for a good few minutes from the sheer volume of texts both from Dean and Balthazar, both urging him to call as soon as he could upon landing.

He called Balthazar first and sat through about five minutes of the man asking if he was alright in about a dozen different permutations of the question. He assured him that he was fine and just needed a moment to breathe before calling Dean, who had planned on hanging around the area until Castiel’s flight arrived.

“Well shouldn’t the man be there already? I mean honestly you trust a guy for _one second_ —”

“Balthazar,” Castiel scolded, cutting him off, “I haven’t even called him yet, he doesn’t know the plane’s arrived.”

Balthazar grumbled on the line for short while longer until Castiel made him hang up. He sighed happily and pressed the phone to his chest, was it possible that he already missed his brother dearly? Quite so, he believed, it’s never too early for such things. He almost dialed Dean’s number when he felt that familiar tug of magic against his. He straightened and glanced around, looking past the group of foreign tourists by the luggage pickup and the family greeting their grandparents or something of that sort, and saw a familiar leather jacket and freckled cheeks. He smiled and whistled, lacing a bit of his power into the sound. It drew a few unwanted glances, but Dean jerked and whirled around, beaming from ear to ear.

“Cas, you made it!”

Castiel laughed and stood on wobbly legs, nearly getting knocked back on his ass again when Dean pushed his way through the crowd to wrap him in his arms. Castiel breathed in his scent, relearning it, leeching off the loose tendrils of power practically oozing out of him with each breath.

“It’s been a long few months,” Dean said, releasing him but still holding him close.

“It really has.”

“You ready to head out?”

“Absolutely,” Castiel grinned, and Dean helped him pick up his bags and they left the airport. Dean had a beautiful classic car, an Impala, he told him, and Castiel liked the way it purred. Castiel could tell that it— _she_ , Dean corrected him—meant a lot to the older witch, so Castiel made sure to pack his bags away with care.

“She was my father’s, same with this jacket,” Dean said once they got on the highway. “Really the only two things he left me, save for Sam.”

“And have you heard from him? Sam?”

“No,” Dean said, not sounding too troubled, “no change since the last we talked.”

Castiel rolled the window down and made sure to breathe deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air, not as clean as the air back home, but he relished it all the same. Better than recycled air in a metal tube in the sky.

“I wouldn’t worry about it though,” Dean said, “now that you’re here he’s bound to gravitate our way.”

“At least one of us is confident,” Castiel smiled, clasping his hands in his lap.

Dean laughed and took the next exit. They drove through several rural neighborhoods and towns, passing by stores and places Castiel had never seen before in his life, and finally, after what felt like forever, they turned right onto Box Turtle Lane.

Castiel gaped up at the house from the car and Dean snorted, pulling in and parking in the cracked driveway.

“You gonna get out and take a look at the place or sit and stare?”

Castiel scrambled at the seatbelt and door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The pictures didn’t do it justice. The house was much larger than he had expected, with plenty of yard space for plants and projects. He caught a glimpse of the backyard before they went up to the porch, it too was larger than he had anticipated. He wasn’t worried about the price of the place, the only thing Michael didn’t bother to keep from him was his inheritance money from his mother, a rather substantial amount, more than he knew what to do with. Putting it into the house was the best thing he could think of. His mother would have wanted him to have his own home away from Michael and the Estate.

“Here are the keys,” Dean said, handing him a ring of several keys, one to the front door, a separate for the back door, and one for the old lock on the shed in the back, “I made some copies, and until you get all moved in I’ll hold onto them if that’s ok.”

“That’s fine, in fact you can keep them for the foreseeable future, just in case.”

“Sure.”

They stepped inside and Castiel was instantly in love. He knew from the pictures that the foyer was open and bright, with entrances to the kitchen and the living room to the left and right, but what the pictures didn’t entirely capture was how high the ceilings were, how the stairwell looped around and he could see the top floor hallway framed by the banister. The walls were in good shape, he didn’t need to worry about painting them unless he wanted to change the color. He might in a few rooms in the future, but for now the off-white, eggshell color was just perfect.

He gravitated to the kitchen and Dean took off his jacket and hung it in the closet. Castiel liked how he was already making himself at home, it made him feel warm and comfortable and welcome in Dean’s life. The kitchen was similarly bright and open, tidy and clean, more space than he knew what to do with to be honest. He couldn’t stop smiling, moving around in circles in the kitchen, touching every surface he could. There was a door to the backyard and he stepped out, mentally cataloguing the available space, the pre-existing patches of struggling perennials, crabgrass overgrown and everywhere, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle with time and care, crabgrass had feelings too, after all.

He went back inside and headed upstairs. The floorboards creaked pleasantly beneath his feet and he started to envision blue runner carpets along the hallway and stairs. The wood was clean and in good shape but he preferred something softer under his feet.

“It’s so big,” Castiel said, finding Dean in the master bedroom. He’d brought up one of Castiel’s bags and was taking some measurements.

“Well, it’s the master bedroom, the guest room’s about this big too.”

Castiel went down the hall past the bathroom—half bathroom, the full was connected Castiel’s room—and Dean was right, though not as big, the guestroom was more than Castiel expected.

“Hell, I could stay here for a few days to help you move in if you’d like.”

“I would like that, thank you,” Castiel breathed, starting to feel overwhelmed by the whole thing.

“Alright, I say for now we worry about bringing everything in from the car and take care of the heavier stuff tomorrow.”

“Ikea here we come,” Castiel joked weakly, and Dean laughed, nodding.

“That’ll be a trip and a half, no mistake. I can borrow a flatbed from a friend to make our lives just a bit easier.”

“At least we’ll be prepared.”

“More than can be said for others I’ve seen there before.”

“Really?”

“Oh sure,” Dean laughed as they went back downstairs, “I’ve gone in and seen some people trying to fit thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture in a Camry.”

“And that’s a small car?”

“Smaller than mine, that’s for sure.”

Castiel could barely imagine it, and was once again glad that he had Dean with him. He couldn’t imagine doing all this alone. They brought everything in from the car and Castiel snapped and sent all the kitchen materials to their places, leaving the bags open on the floor so the items could find their places around the house.

“That’s a neat trick,” Dean laughed, moving out of the way of a cluster of comforters as they flew upstairs. Cas smiled and threw a pile of shirts up in the air and they joined the flurry of towels and undergarments that flew into the laundry room. The air was practically humming from the concentration of magic in the house and the floors and walls groaned around them. Dean laughed when a flurry of knee socks brushed over his face and shoulders and soon enough the air was clear, their laughter interspersed by the soft thumps and bumping from shoes and boots and things finding their way to the front closet.

Later they ordered a pizza and talked well into the night, and it was mostly Dean explaining things about the neighborhood and the surrounding city, telling him the best places to shop for food and clothes, which parts of the city were magic-friendly and which parts…weren’t. Dean hadn’t been lying when he said that there were people in America who weren’t as accepting of witchcraft, but Castiel couldn’t find any reason why he would have to visit those parts of town in the near future so he didn’t think much of it. Dean told him about his business as well, about the wand-making, and his newer branch of experimental broom-making as well. Castiel was glad to hear it, and they chatted about wood preferences and specs and things like that. Honestly Castiel was fascinated, he hadn’t really known much about what went into building and shaping magical objects, and he hoped to learn as much from Dean as he could. He wasn’t allowed to bring his own broom overseas, customs issues and all that, and he was in the market for a new one. Dean promised to bring him to his shop as soon as he was settled.

“I’d like that,” Castiel smiled.

“Alright, get some sleep, we got a lot of work ahead of us tomorrow. We can’t use a whole lot of magic in public so…get ready for some heavy lifting.”

“Great,” Castiel grumbled, rolling over in his sleeping bag to flip the light switch with a flick of his finger. He fell asleep to Dean’s deep, rumbled breaths—almost snores, but he would later deny it—and the creaking and settling of the house around him.


End file.
